“Connie,” he said at last, “would you like a tree here in the sheep cote, even if it didn’t have all those jimcracks? A real country tree, I mean?”
“I guess I would,” she answered, emphasizing each word with a kick upon the rounds of the chair.
“Well, then,” Kenneth said, “I think I can manage it this afternoon, but you must say nothing about it.”
Connie was accustomed to being told, “Not a word out of your head,” by her aunt. The words generally came just the same, but in this instance she kept them in, and through the dinner said nothing, nor after it, when Kenneth disappeared and no one knew where he was, although his mother thought she saw him once come from the garret and once from the pantry. To Connie the time seemed very long, with only the dog to play with. She couldn’t find the kitten, and finally stole out to the barn to hunt for it and the other cats, the most of whom ran from her and hid. She saw the pigs and threw them some apples and looked for the hen she had frightened in the morning. Then she went up the stairs, and with the pitchfork threw some hay down to Sorrel as she had seen the deacon do, and was wondering what to do next, when “Connie! Connie!” came up to her from Kenneth, who was looking for her. His tree was ready and he had come to take her to it. There was more hay in her hair and dress than there had been in the morning, but Kenneth brushed it off and the two were soon on their way to the sheep cote, where Connie went into screams of delight at sight of a pretty little pine which Kenneth had cut down and trimmed and fixed securely in its place. In front of it was the sled, its red trimmings showing well against the green background. Tied here and there among the boughs was a curious collection. The old picture-book, with a big elephant turned to the front, papers of maple sugar and walnuts, and butternuts, which Kenneth had cracked in the barn; two or three bunches of grapes and some rosy-cheeked apples; the knife intended for Harry, the mittens and skates, which Kenneth had managed to spirit away when his mother did not see him. There were also some sandwiches for the dog, who seemed to know what was going on and ran in circles and stamped his feet and barked until Kenneth called him to order and made him lie down by the chair.
That was all, but Kenneth had arranged everything so artistically that the effect was very good, especially as he had mixed with the greens a few scarlet holly berries, which he had found in the garden, and a red candlestick in which a candle was burning. Connie was eager to inspect everything. But Kenneth kept her back.
“I am to call off, and you come up as you do at home,” he said, taking his place by the tree, on which the low western sun was shining, lighting it up here and there, as if there were many tapers upon it instead of one poor tallow candle.
The sled was the first thing given, and Connie grew so excited over it that until twice repeated she did not hear her name when called for the maple sugar, which she began at once to eat, as she did the grapes which came next. The book and nuts were last, and by that time her mouth was full, and there were smears of sugar and grape juice on her face and stains on her blue cloak. But she was very happy, and better pleased than she had been at home with the costliest toys. Alternating with her name was that of Chance, who, with wonderful sagacity, seemed to comprehend the matter and sat with great gravity by Connie until his name was called. Then he went with a bound to the tree, and making short work of his sandwich walked back again to his post, waiting for the next call.
“Now, then,” Kenneth said, when the last paper of nuts was handed to Connie, “I want you to make believe you are Harry and come up for him.”
“All right,” was Connie’s reply, as she put into her mouth a piece of sugar so big that she could scarcely articulate plainly.
The knife was given out, and the mittens and the skates, and Connie put them on her sled and seemed waiting for more.