And when the carpenter had gone old Jim took his little foundling from
the berth and sat him on his knee.

In the tiny chap's arms the powder-flask-and-potato doll was firmly
held. The face of the lady had wrinkled with a premature descent of
age upon her being. One of her eyes had disappeared, while her
soot-made mouth had been wiped across her entire countenance.

The quaint bit of a boy was dressed, as usual, in the funny little
trousers that came to his heels, while his old fur cap had been kept in
requisition for the warmth it afforded his ears. He cuddled
confidingly against his big, rough protector, but he made no sound of
speaking, nor did anything suggestive of a smile come to play upon his
grave little features.

Jim had told him of Christmas by the hour--all the beauty of the story,
so old, so appealing to the race of man, who yearns towards everything
affording a brightness of hope and a faith in anything human.

"What would little Skeezucks like for his Christmas?" the man inquired,
for the twentieth time.

The little fellow pressed closer against him, in baby shyness and
slowly answered:

"Bruv-ver--Jim."

The miner clasped him tenderly against his heart. Yet he had but
scanty intimation of the all the tiny pilgrim meant.