Christmas is always the saddest of seasons to a lonely man, and General Hampden, when he landed in that old Southern town on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, would not have been lonelier in a desert. The signs of Christmas preparation and the sounds of Christmas cheer but made him lonelier. For years, flying from the Furies, he had immersed himself in work and so, in part, had forgotten his troubles; but the removal of this prop let him fall flat to the earth.

As soon as the old fellow had gotten settled in his room at the hotel he paid a visit to his son's grave, piloted to the cemetery by a friendly and garrulous old negro hackman, who talked much about Christmas and “the holidays.”

“Yes, suh, dat he had known Cap'n Ham'n. He used to drive him out long as he could drive out. He had been at his funeral. He knew Mrs. Ham'n, too. She sutney is a fine lady,” he wound up in sincere eulogy.

The General gave a grunt.

He was nearer to his son than he had ever been since the day he last saw him in all the pride and beauty of a gallant young soldier.

The grave, at least, was not neglected. It was marked by a modest cross, on which was the Hampden coat-of-arms and the motto, “Loyal,” and it was banked in fresh evergreens, and some flowers had been placed on it only that afternoon. It set the General to thinking.

When he returned to his hotel, he found the loneliness unbearable. His visit to his son's grave had opened the old wound and awakened all his memories. He knew now that he had ruined his life. The sooner the doctor's forecast came true, the better. He had no care to live longer. He would return to work and die in harness.

He sent his servant to the office and arranged for his car to be put on the first train next morning.

Then, to escape from his thoughts, he strolled out in the street where the shopping crowds streamed along, old and young, poor and well-to-do, their arms full of bundles, their faces eager, and their eyes alight.

General Hampden seemed to himself to be walking among ghosts.

As he stalked on, bitter and lonely, he was suddenly run into by a very little boy, in whose small arms was so big a bundle that he could scarcely see over it. The shock of the collision knocked the little fellow down, sitting flat on the pavement, still clutching his bundle. But his face after the first shadow of surprise lit up again.

“I beg your pardon, sir—that was my fault,” he said, with so quaint an imitation of an old person that the General could not help smiling. With a cheery laugh, he tried to rise to his feet, but the bundle was too heavy, and he would not let it go.

The General bent over him and, with an apology, set him on his feet.

“I beg your pardon, sir. That was my fault. That is a pretty big bundle you have.”

“Yes, sir; and I tell you, it is pretty heavy, too,” the manikin said, proudly. “It 's a Christmas gift.” He started on, and the General turned with him.

“A Christmas gift! It must be a fine one. Who gave it to you?” demanded the General, with a smile at the little fellow's confidence.

“It is a fine one! Did n't anybody give it to me. We 're giving it to somebody.”

“Oh! You are? To whom?”

“I 'll tell you; but you must promise not to tell.”

“I promise I will not tell a soul. I cross my heart.”

He made a sign as he remembered he used to do in his boyhood.

The boy looked up at him doubtfully with a shade of disapproval.

“My grandfather says that you must not cross your heart—'t a gentleman's word is enough,” he said, quaintly.

“Oh, he does? Well, I give my word.”

“Well—” He glanced around to see that no one was listening, and sidling a little nearer, lowered his voice: “It 's a great-coat for grandfather!”

“A great-coat! That's famous!” exclaimed the General.

“Yes, is n't it? You see—he 's mighty old and he 's got a bad cough—he caught it in the army, and I have to take care of him. Don't you think that's right?”

“Of course, I do,” said the General, envying one grandfather.

“That's what I tell him. So mamma and I have bought this for him.”

“He must be a proud grandfather,” said the General, with envy biting deeper at his heart.

“I have another grandfather; but I don't like him,” continued the little fellow.

“I am sorry for that,” said the General, sincerely. “Why is that?”

“He was mean to my father, and he is mean to my mother.” His voice conveyed a sudden bitterness.

“Oh!”

“Mamma says I must like him; but I do not. I just can't. You would not like a man who was mean to your mother, would you!”

“I would not,” declared the General, truthfully.

“And I am not going to like him,” asserted the boy, with firmness.

The General suddenly pitied one grandfather.

They had come to a well-lighted corner, and as the boy lifted his face, the light fell on it. Something about the bright, sturdy countenance with its frank, dark eyes and brown hair suddenly sent the General back thirty years to a strip of meadow on which two children were playing: one a dark-eyed boy as sturdy as this one. It was like an arrow in his heart. “With a gasp he came back to the present. His thoughts pursued him even here.

“What is your name?” he asked as he was feeling in his pocket for a coin.

“Oliver Drayton Hampden, sir.”

The words were perfectly clear.

The General's heart stopped beating and then gave a bound. The skies suddenly opened for him and then shut up again.

His exclamation brought the child to a stop and he glanced up at him in vague wonder. The General stooped and gazed at him searchingly, almost fiercely. The next second he had pounced upon him and lifted him in his arms while the bundle fell to the pavement.

“My boy! I am your grandfather,” he cried, kissing him violently. “I am your grandfather Hampden.”

The child was lost in amazement for a moment, and then, putting his hands against the General's face, he pushed him slowly away.

“Put me down, please,” he said, with that gravity which in a child means so much.

General Hampden set him down on the pavement. The boy looked at him searchingly for a second, and then turned in silence and lifted his bundle. The General's face wore a puzzled look—he had solved many problems, but he had never had one more difficult than this. His heart yearned toward the child, and he knew that on his own wisdom at that moment might depend his future happiness. On his next words might hang for him life or death. The expression on the boy's face, and the very set of his little back as he sturdily tugged at his burden, recalled his father, and with it the General recognized the obstinacy which he knew lurked in the Hampden blood, which had once been his pride.

“Oliver,” he said, gravely, leaning down over the boy and putting his hand on him gently, “there has been a great mistake. I am going home with you to your mother and tell her so. I want to see her and your grandfather, and I think I can explain everything.”

The child turned and gazed at him seriously, and then his face relaxed. He recognized his deep sincerity.

“All right.” He turned and walked down the street, bending under his burden. The General offered to carry it for him, but he declined.

“I can carry it,” was the only answer he made except once when, as the General rather insisted, he said firmly, “I want to carry it myself,” and tottered on.

A silence fell on them for a moment. A young man passing them spoke to the child cheerily.

“Hullo, Oliver! A Christmas present?—That 's a great boy,” he said, in sheer friendliness to the General, and passed on. The boy was evidently well known.

Oliver nodded; then feeling that some civility was due on his part to his companion, he said briefly, “That 's a friend of mine.”

“Evidently.”

The General, even in his perplexity, smiled at the quaint way the child imitated the manners of older men.

Just then they came to a little gate and the boy's manner changed.

“If you will wait, I will run around and put my bundle down. I am afraid my grandfather might see it.” He lowered his voice for the first time since the General had introduced himself. Then he disappeared around the house.

Oliver, having slipped in at the back door and carefully reconnoitred the premises, tripped up stairs with his bundle to his mother's room. He was so excited over his present that he failed to observe her confusion at his sudden entrance, or her hasty hiding away of something on which she was working. Colonel Drayton was not the only member of that household that Christmas who was to receive a great-coat.

When Oliver had untied his bundle, nothing would serve but he must put on the coat to show his mother how his grandfather would look in it. As even with the sleeves rolled up and with his arms held out to keep it from falling off him, the tails dragged for some distance on the floor and only the top of his head was visible above the collar, the resemblance was possibly not wholly exact. But it appeared to satisfy the boy. He was showing how his grandfather walked, when he suddenly recalled his new acquaintance.

“I met my other grandfather, on the street, mamma, and he came home with me.” He spoke quite naturally.

“Met your other grandfather!” Mrs. Hampden looked mystified.

“He says he is my grandfather, and he looks like papa. I reckon he 's my other grandfather. He ran against me in the street and knocked me down, and then came home with me.”

“Came home with you!” repeated Mrs. Hampden, still in a maze, and with a vague trouble dawning in her face.

“Yes 'm.”

Oliver went over the meeting again.

His mother's face meantime showed the tumult of emotion that was sweeping over her. Why had General Hampden come? What had he come for? To try and take her boy from her?

At the thought her face and form took on something of the lioness that guards her whelp. Then as the little boy repeated what his grandfather had said of his reason for coming home with him, her face softened again. She heard a voice saying, “If he ever sues for pardon, be merciful to him for my sake.” She remembered what day it was: the Eve of the day of Peace and Good-will toward all men. He must have come for Peace, and Peace it should be. She would not bring up her boy under the shadow of that feud which had blighted both sides of his race so long.

“Oliver,” she said, “you must go down and let him in. Say I will come down.”

“I will not like him,” said the child, his eyes on her face.

“Oh, yes, you must; he is your grandfather.”

“You do not love him, and I will not.” The sturdy little figure and the serious face with the chin already firm for such a child, the dark, grave eyes and the determined speech, were so like his father that the widow gave half a cry.

“You must, my son, and I will try. Your father would wish it.”

The little boy pondered for a second.

“Very well, mamma; but he must be good to you.”

As the little fellow left the room, the widow threw herself on her knees.