“Yes, I did, dear; I wrote twice to Ireland, not knowing you had left it. That was at first, just after we landed. Soon we had a skirmish with the natives out there, and I got shot in the leg and otherwise wounded; and for a long time I lay between life and death, only partly conscious; and now I am discharged with a pension and a wooden leg.”
“Then you can’t go for a soldier again!” cried Salmon.
“Not I. I shall settle at Timberdale, I think, if I can meet with a pretty little place to suit me. I found my poor mother dead when I came home, and what was hers is now mine. And it will be a comfortable living for us, Mamie, of itself: besides a few spare hundred pounds to the good, some of which you shall be heartily welcome to, Mr. Lee, for you look as if you wanted it. And the first thing I shall do, Mamie, my dear, will be to nurse you back to health. Bless my heart! Not married! I wish I had the handling of him that first set that idea afloat!”
“You’ll get well now, Mamie,” I whispered to her. For she was looking better already.
“Oh, Master Johnny, perhaps I shall! How good God is to us! And, James—James, this is the little one. I named her after you: Jemima.”
“Peace on earth, and goodwill to men!” cried old Lee, in his thankfulness. “The bells said it to-day.”
And as I made off at last to catch up the Squire, the little Mima was being smothered with kisses in her father’s arms.
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill towards men!” To every one of us, my friends, do the Christmas bells say it, as Christmas Day comes round.
THE END.
[1] But old Mrs. Layne did not burn the letter: or else it would never have found its way into Duffham’s collection. She was content to put it off from day to day just as people do put things off; and it was never done.—J.L.