So full of warmth and brightness, comfort, life,
And joyousness! My spirits always rise
Beside the Christmas fire, and when I'm near
My brother Charley; both inspire a glad
Courageous trust." As thus the lad ran on
Within himself, he struck and chopp'd amain;
And dealt the gnarlèd branch such sturdy blows
With well-directed axe, that soon he cleft
A wide division 'twixt the bole and it;
Another stroke, and then it fell to earth.
But as it fell, the dull, deep, heavy thud
Of falling wood was blended with a low
Strange sound, a sound as of a human cry,
A cry half forced from lips by deadly pain,
A moan, a gasp, an anguish-utter'd tone.
It startled Ben, who sharp look'd round, as if
Some wounded creature needs must be close by.
No one he saw; the little orchard ground
Was still and peaceful in the frosty air;
The sparkling rime was glist'ning on the trees
And grass. Had one white fragment dropp'd, it might
Almost be heard, so silent was the spot;
And then, with shrilly softness, there trill'd forth
The few clear notes of sudden-singing robin,
That made the silence but the surer seem.
The boy drew breath; for he had held it check'd,
As list'ning whence that smother'd cry should come.
What could it be? Or had he really heard
A cry at all? For, now 'twas gone, he scarce
Believed 'twas aught beyond a fancied sound.
And yet it had been wonderfully like
A human tone, and even strangely like—-
Or so he for a moment thought—- the voice
Of Charley; but he drew a lengthen'd breath,
And laugh'd that notion from him, as he stoop'd
And raised the sever'd branch, and bore it on
His shoulders to the wood-house, where he sang
A blithe old Christmas carol while he shaped
The clump into a goodly sized log
For burning when the time should come.

And soon
It came—- the time of peace, good will, and joy ,
The starry eve, the Christmas- eve, the eve
Of eves; and yet no news of Charley!
"He will not come to-night, he'll come to-morrow,"
They said with ill-assumèd smile and look
Of confidence; for still they would not let
Themselves admit they felt a doubt he would
Return for Christmas-tide, as he had said
He should. And Peggy stole away, and went
Alone to lay the fire upon the hearth
In their bright parlour-room, where twice or thrice
A year the cottage party met to keep
Their rarely-holden festivals in state.
Already she had deck'd it with green boughs
Of shining holly, beaded coral-red;
With wreaths of ivy, dark and glossy-leaf 'd;
With clusters of arbutus and white tufts
Of laurustinus, intertwining sprays
Of fan-like arbor vitæ ; while 'mid all
There hung aloft a certain mystic branch,
Its rounded-ended leaves begemm'd between
By berry pearls, 'neath which if maiden pass,
Her lips pay toll; but Peggy hurried on,
Nor glanced once up, nor shyly smiled at it;
Her mouth was grave, her eyes were downward bent,
As straight she walk'd towards the lowly hearth,
And knelt beside the heap of sticks placed there
By Ben, together with the goodly log
Of yule, all ready to her hand; she laid
The slender sticks and twigs across, a light
And well-built mass, then turn'd to lift the log;
And as she turn'd, the thought swept through her mind,

"Ah! if but Charley now were here, he'd lift
It for me with that strong right arm of his,
That always seems beside me at a need
When he's at home;" and as the thought arose,
There seem'd to rise beside her in the dusk
A stalwart form, that stoop'd towards the log
And aided her to raise it. Was she sure?
She look'd with straining eyes; ay, there it was—-
The figure of her brother Charley, dark
And dimly seen, but yet none else than his;
His sailor shoulders, broad and manly back,
His curly hair, and firmly well-set head.
She could have heard the beating of her heart,
While still she kept her fixèd look upon
The form so near her, yet so far, so real
And yet so insubstantial—- for it thus
Appear'd to her; but, even while she gazed,
It faded, grew more indistinct, became
A part of all the objects round it, lost
Its shape and substance, and she felt and knew
It to be naught but her own aching fancy,
That yearn'd for sight of him who absent still
Remain'd. She gave a little shrug, half smile,
Half sigh, and chid herself for giving way
To whimsies of the brain, and set herself
In earnest to fulfil her task. " To-night
We will not light our Christmas fire, but leave
It till to-morrow," murmur'd she, "when he,
We trust, will be among us, here to keep
Our Christmas-eve and day in one;" and so
Withdrew, and closed the door, and left the room
In sacred silence, darkness, solitude,
Until the morning, which she hoped would see
The place illumed by Charley's presence there,
No less than by the yule log set ablaze.

The morning came, and with it Mary Gray.
She walk'd in quietly; she ask'd no word
Of news, but in her eyes there sat a world
Of soul-assured expectance; greeted all
With loving Christmas wishes: then she took
Her part with Peggy in the busy work
Of household preparation, festive cheer
Of good old English beef, with pudding crown'd;
And, while engaged in tending on the roast,
Brisk Peggy ask'd her friend to set alight
The Christmas fire that she had ready laid.
And Mary went into the parlour-room,
So silent and so tranquil, with its shade
Of verdant boughs, its altar-hearth; a shrine
It look'd of peace and blessed Christmas joy;
A hallow'd temple, consecrate to home
And happy gladness for the time supreme.
She touch'd with flame the heaped-up wood, and watch'd
It burn; and as the lambent brightness rose
And rose, and play'd around the good yule log,
And finally enkindled it to warmth
And glow, and tower'd up a steady spire
Of candent strength, there seem'd to glide
A strong right arm around the waist of Mary,
And 'neath her gentle head a shoulder firm;
So palpably she felt them there, she could
Have cried, "He's come!" And yet she knew it was
But image of her heart's desire—- a shape—-
A something—- mere embodying of her thought:
Those eyes that seem'd to look into her own—-
That breath that crept among her hair, and swept
Her cheek—- were they but reflex of her thought?
That touch of balmy softness on her lips—-