"Um—hm"—nodding her head cheerfully.
"Well! I knew she was an angel," said Major Stafford in an aside to his wife; "but—What did He say Santa Claus is going to bring you?" he asked.
The little mite sprang to her feet. "He's goin' to bring me—a—great—big—dolly—with real, sure-'nough hair, and blue eyes that will go to sleep, and her name's Miss Please-Ma'am." Her face was aglow, and she stretched her plump hands wide apart to give the size.
"She has dreamt it," said the Major in an undertone to her mother. "There is not such a doll as that in the Southern Confederacy."
The child caught his meaning. "Yes, He is," she insisted, "'cause I asked Him an' He said he would; and Charlie——"
Just then that youngster burst into the room, a small whirlwind in petticoats. As soon as his cyclonic tendencies could be curbed his father asked him:
"Well, what did you ask Santa Claus for, young man?"
"For a pair of breeches and a sword," answered the boy promptly, striking an attitude. "And I'm going to have 'em. I told Him I just had to have 'em."
"Well, upon my word!" laughed his father, eyeing the erect little figure and the steady, clear eyes which looked proudly up at him. "I had no idea what a young Achilles we had here. You shall have them."
The boy nodded gravely. "All right. When I get to be a man I won't let anybody make my mamma cry." He advanced a step, with head up, the very picture of spirit.