CHAPTER XXVII.
CHRISTMAS ON THE OTHER SIDE.
"'Christmas, 1893.' Those last two figures are a bit crooked; aren't
they, Dol?" said a tall, soldierly fellow, who was no longer a boy, yet
could scarcely in his own country call himself a man.
He read the date critically, having fixed it as the centre-piece in a
festive arch of holly and bunting, which spanned the hall of a mansion
in Victoria Park, Manchester.
"I believe that's better," he added, straightening a tipsy "93," and
bounding from a chair-back on which he was perched, to step quickly
backward, with a something in gait and bearing that suggested a cavalry
swing.
"'Christmas, 1893,'" he read musingly again. "Goodness! to think it's
two years since we laid eyes on old Cyrus, and that he has landed on
English soil before this, may be here any minute--and Sinclair too. I
guess"--these two words were brought out with a smile, as if the speaker
was putting himself in touch with the happiness of a by-gone time--"I
guess that 'Star-Spangled Banner' will look home-like to them.
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