"Let's stay here a little in the sun. The holly won't wither. I don't
know a doorstep, East or West, that I like to sit on better than this.
There's a variety of log cabins that I'm fond of, and maybe as many as
four or five wigwams, but I'd like to grow old sitting in the sun before
this little grey house! It isn't going to be long before the sap runs in
the sugar trees and it's spring. Then all the pretty flowers will come
up again and I'll help you draw cool water from the well. Don't you ever
wear that Spanish comb I brought you?"

"I've got it put away. It's lovely."

"It oughtn't to be put away. It ought to be stuck there, dark shell
above your yellow hair. You'll wear it, won't you, Christmas Day?"

"Yeth, I'll wear it, Mr. Adam. Who's coming now, Smut?"

"He hears a horse. Wear the Spanish comb, and Tom shall brew us a bowl
of punch, and we might get in some gay folk and a fiddle and have a
dance. I'd like to stand up with you, little partridge."

Vinie put down her head and began to cry. "It's nothing, nothing! There
isn't anything the matter! Don't think it, Mr. Adam. I jutht get tired
and cold, and Christmas isn't like it used to be. Now I've stopped--and
I'll dance with you with pleasure, Mr. Adam."

"That's right," said Adam. "Now, you dry your eyes, and we'll go into
the parlour and I'll make a fire, and we'll put leaves and berries all
around. Who is it coming by? Mr. Fairfax Cary."

"Yeth," answered Vinie. "He rides a black horse."

The hunter glanced at her again. "Little bird," he thought, "your voice
didn't use to have so many notes." Aloud he said, "He's grown to look
like his brother. I met him in the road the other day and we talked
awhile. He's too stern and quiet, though. All the time we talked I was
thinking of a Cherokee whom I once met following a war party that had
killed his wife. Fairfax Cary had just the same air as that
Indian--still, like an afternoon on a mountain-top. There's no clue yet
as to who shot his brother."

Fairfax Cary, going by on Saladin, lifted his hat to the woman on the
porch. "Yes, he's like that Cherokee," repeated Adam. "Where's he
riding?--to Fontenoy, I reckon. Now, little partridge, let's go make the
parlour look like Christmas."

Vinie rose, and the hunter gathered up the green stuff. She spoke again
in the same fluttered voice. "Mr. Adam, do you think--do you think
they'll ever find out--"

"Find out who shot Mr. Cary?" asked Gaudylock. "They may--th