“The meadow, but not the path,” replied the girl; “the path is asleep under the snow.” She cast a happy glance over the white landscape, down the long turnpike, and across the broad meadow where a cedar tree waved like a snowy plume. “Jake, we must climb the wall,” she added to the negro boy, “be careful about the berries.”
Dan threw his holly into the meadow and lifted Betty upon the stone wall. “Now wait a moment,” he cautioned, as he went over. “Don't move till I tell you. I'm managing this job—there, now jump!”
He caught her hands and set her on her feet beside him. “Take your fence, my beauties,” he called gayly to the dogs, as they came bounding across the turnpike.
Betty straightened her cap and took up her berries.
“Your tender mercies are rather cruel,” she complained, as she did so. “Even my hair is undone.”
“Oh, it's all the better,” returned Dan, without looking at her. “I don't see why girls make themselves so smooth, anyway. That's what I like about you, you know—you've always got a screw loose somewhere.”
“But I haven't,” cried Betty, stopping in the snow.
“What! if I find a curl where it oughtn't to be, may I have it?”
“Of course not,” she answered indignantly.
“Well, there's one hanging over your ear now. Shall I put it straight with this piece of holly? My hands are full, but I think I might manage it.”