And now came crying the forfeits. Molly Brunton knelt down, her face buried in her mother’s lap; the latter took out the forfeits one by one, and as she held them up she said the accustomed formula:
“A fine thing, and a very fine thing, what must he (or she) do who owns this thing?”
One or two had been told to kneel to the prettiest, bow to the wittiest, and kiss those they loved best; others had had to bite an inch off the poker, or such plays upon words. And now came Sylvia’s pretty new ribbon that Philip had given her (he almost longed to snatch it out of Mrs. Corney’s hands and burn it before all their faces, so annoyed was he with the whole affair).
“A fine thing and a very fine thing—a most particular fine thing—choose how she came by it. What must she do as owns this thing?”
“She must blow out t’ candle and kiss t’ candlestick.”
In one instant Kinraid had hold of the only candle within reach; all the others had been put up high on inaccessible shelves and other places. Sylvia went up and blew out the candle, and before the sudden partial darkness was over he had taken the candle into his fingers and, according to the traditional meaning of the words, was in the place of the candlestick, and as such was to be kissed. Everyone laughed at innocent Sylvia’s face as the meaning of her penance came into it, everyone but Philip, who almost choked.
“I’m candlestick,” said Kinraid, with less of triumph in his voice than he would have had with any other girl in the room.
“Yo’ mun kiss t’ candlestick,” cried the Corneys, “or you’ll niver get your ribbon back.”
“And she sets a deal o’ store by that ribbon,” said Molly Brunton maliciously.