n't holly such as grows down
Williamsburgh way--but it's mistletoe and it's holly."

"Yeth," agreed Vinie listlessly. "I don't know which ith the prettier,
the little white waxen berries or the red."

"I like the red," returned the hunter. "That in your hand--bright and
quick as blood-drops."

"No," said Vinie, and let the spray drop to the floor. "Blood ith darker
than that."

"Not if it's heart's blood--that's bright enough. What is the matter,
little partridge?"

"Nothing," Vinie replied, with an effort. "I've been baking cake all
morning, and I'm tired. I reckon you couldn't have Christmas without
baking and scrubbing and sweeping and dusting and making a whole lot of
fuss about nothing--nothing at all." Her voice dragged away.

"You couldn't have it without hanging up mistletoe and holly," quoth
Adam. "I've been a month in these parts, and I've come around mighty
often to see you and Tom. Why won't you tell me?"

Vinie turned upon him startled eyes. "Tell you?"

"Tell me what ails you. Why, you aren't any more like--Don't you
remember that morning, a'most four years ago, when I found you sitting
by the blackberry bushes on the Fontenoy road? Yes, you do. The
blackberries were in bloom, and you had on a pink sunbonnet, and I broke
you a lot of wild cherry for your very same parlour in there. You had
been crying that day, too,--oh, I knew!--but you plucked up spirit and
put the wild cherry all around the parlour. And now, look at you!--you
aren't a partridge any longer, you're a dove without a mate. Well, why
don't you cry, little dove?"

"I don't feel like crying," said Vinie. "There isn't anything the matter
with me. I'm going to put the green stuff up, and Tom's got ever so many
wax candles and two bottles of Madeira, and you'll come to supper--"

"I'll send you a brace of wild turkeys Christmas Eve. I'll shoot them
over on Indian Run."

Vinie shrank back. "You look," exclaimed Adam, "as though you were on
Indian Run, and I had turned my gun on you! Why did you go white and
sick like that?"

He glanced at her again with keen, deep blue eyes. "Now the colour has
come back. Were you frightened over there in those woods when you really
were a bird? Indian Run! It is more than three months, isn't it, since
Mr. Cary's death?"

"December," answered Vinie, in a fluttering voice, "December, November,
October, and part of September--yeth, more than three months. Suppose we
go now and put the holly up?"