Christmas was coming. As he stood, day after day, looking out of
the gray window, he could see the signs of its coming even in the
shop-windows glittering with miraculous toys, in the market-carts
with their red-faced drivers and heaps of ducks and turkeys, in
every stage-coach or omnibus that went by crowded with boys home
for the holidays, hallooing for Bell or Lincoln, forgetful that
the election was over, and Carolina out.
Pike came to see him one day, his arms full of a bundle, which
turned out to be an accordion for Sophy.
"Christmas, you know," he said, taking off the brown paper, while
he was cursing the Cotton States the hardest, and gravely
kneading at the keys, and stretching it until he made as much
discord as five Congressmen. "I think Sophy will like that," he
said, looking at it sideways, and tying it up carefully.
"I am sure she will," said Holmes,--and did not think the man a
fool for one moment.
Always going back, this Holmes, when he was alone, to the
certainty that home-comings or children's kisses or Christmas
feasts were not for such as he,--never could be, though he sought
for the old time in bitterness of heart; and so, dully
remembering his resolve, and waiting for Christmas eve, when he
might end it all. Not one of the myriads of happy children
listened more intently to the clock clanging off hour after hour
than the silent, stern man who had no hope in that day that was
coming.
He learned to watch even for poor Lois coming up the corridor
every day,--being the only tie that bound the solitary man to the
inner world of love and warmth.
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