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And now he saw and felt sure that Orion was bending downward, and he knew that the night must be broken; and, with some new hope, throwing down the shovel with which he had been working, he began his soldier tramp once more,–as far as soldier tramp was possible with those trailing snow-shoes,–tried again on “No war nor battle sound,” broke down on “Cynthia’s seat” and the “music of the spheres;” but at last,–working on “beams,” “long beams,” and “that with long beams,”–he caught the stanzas he was feeling for, and broke out exultant with,–

“At last surrounds their sight,
A globe of circular light
That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed;
The helmed cherubim
And sworded seraphim
Are seen in glittering ranks–“

“Globe of circular light–am I dreaming, or have they come!”–

Come they had! The globe of circular light swept full over the valley, and the scream of the engine was welcomed by the freezing boy as if it had been an angel’s whisper to him. Not unprepared did it find him. The red lantern swung to and fro in a well-practised hand, and he was in waiting on his firmest spot as the train slowed and the engine passed him.

“Do not stop for me,” he cried, as he threw his weight heavily on the tender side, and the workmen dragged him in. “Only run slow till you are out of the ledge: we have made a milk station at the cross-road.”

“Good for you!” said the wondering fireman, who in a moment understood the exigency. The heavy plough threw out the snow steadily still, in ten seconds they were clear of the ledge, and saw the fire-light shimmering on the great pyramids of milk-cans. Slower and slower ran the train, and by the blazing fire stopped, for once, because its masters chose to stop. And the working party on the train cheered lustily as they tumbled out of the cars, as they apprehended the situation, and were cheered by the working party from the village.

Two or three cans of milk stood on the embers of the fire, that they might be ready for the men on the train with something that was at least warm. An empty passenger car was opened and the pyramids of milk-cans were hurried into it,–forty men now assisting.

“You will find Joe Winter at the Boston station,” said John Stevens to the “gentlemanly conductor” of the express, whose lightning train had thus become a milk convoy. “Tell Winter to distribute this among all the carts, that everybody may have some. Good luck to you. Good-by!” And the engines snorted again, and John Stevens turned back, not so much as thinking that he had made his Christmas present to a starving town.

V.

CHRISTMAS MORNING.

The children were around Robert Walter’s knees, and each of the two spelled out a verse of the second chapter of Luke, on Christmas morning. And Robert and Mary kneeled with them, and they said together, “Our Father who art in heaven.” Mary’s voice broke a little when they came to “daily bread,” but with the two, and her husband, she continued to the end, and could say “thine is the power,” and believe it too.

“Mamma,” whispered little Fanny, as she kissed her mother after the prayer, “when I said my prayer up stairs last night, I said ‘our daily milk,’ and so did Robert.” This was more than poor Mary could bear. She kissed the child, and she hurried away.

For last night at six o’clock it was clear that the milk was sour, and little Jamie had detected it first of all. Then, with every one of the old wiles, they had gone back over the old slops; but the child, with that old weird strength, had pushed them all away. Christmas morning broke, and poor Robert, as soon as light would serve, had gone to the neighbors all,–their nearest intimates they had tried the night before,–and from all had brought back the same reply; one friend had sent a wretched sample, but the boy detected the taint and pushed it, untasted, away. Dr. Morton had the alarm the day before. He was at the house earlier than usual with some condensed milk, which his wife’s stores had furnished; but that would not answer. Poor Jamie pushed this by. There was some smoke or something,–who should say what?–it would not do. The doctor could see in an instant how his patient had fallen back in the night. That weird, anxious, entreating look, as his head lay back on the little pillow, had all come back again. Robert and Robert’s friends, Gaisford and Warren, had gone down to the Old Colony, to the Worcester, and to the Hartford stations. Perhaps their trains were doing better. The door-bell rang yet again. “Mrs. Appleton’s love to Mrs. Walter, and perhaps her child will try some fresh beef-tea.” As if poor Jamie did not hate beef-tea; still Morton resolutely forced three spoonfuls down. Half an hour more and Mrs. Dudley’s compliments. “Mrs. Dudley heard that Mrs. Walter was out of milk, and took the liberty to send round some very particularly nice Scotch groats, which her brother had just brought from Edinburgh.” “Do your best with it, Fanny,” said poor Mary, but she knew that if Jamie took those Scotch groats it was only because they were a Christmas present. Half an hour more! Three more spoonfuls of beef-tea after a fight. Door-bell again. Carriage at the door. “Would Mrs. Walter come down and see Mrs. Fitch? It was really very particular.” Mary was half dazed, and went down, she did not know why.