Adam came through the gate that had never been mended and up the little, sunny path. He had his gun, and in addition a great armful of holly and mistletoe, and he deposited all alike upon the porch floor. "A green Christmas we're having," he announced cheerfully, "so we might as well make it greener! I thought these would look pretty over your chimney glass."
"They'll be lovely," answered Vinie. "I just somehow didn't think of fixing things up this Christmas. I'll put them all around the parlour, Mr. Adam."
"I'll put them for you," said Adam. "This isn't mistletoe like you get in the big trees south, and it isn'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?"