Last mail in, Mis' Bascomb? "Last mail's in, Tony." "Be there anything for me to-night?" Widow Bascomb knew perfectly well there was not, but she reached for a small pile of letters in a pigeonhole on her right and glanced over them rapidly. Her sour visage and rasping voice softened perceptibly as she smiled on the little old man before her. "Sorry, Tony, there's nothing for you to-night." "Thank you, Mis' Bascomb, p'raps it'll come to-morrow," and Tony turned away with a sigh and moved towards the door. A group of men were gathered around the stove, smoking and exchanging the gossip of the town. These greeted him kindly as he passed and he returned the greetings half absently. Before opening the door, the old man stopped to give his woolen muffler one more turn around his neck. "Purty cold snap, this," he remarked to the company in general. "Looks as if we'd have snow 'fore mornin' and a white Christmas after all. Good-night, Mis' Bascomb; good-night boys. A merry Christmas to you all!" and Tony stepped out into the frosty air of the December evening.