DAN AND BETTY

On the last day of the year the young men from Cheric.o.ke, as they rode down the turnpike, came upon Betty bringing holly berries from the wood. She was followed by two small negroes laden with branches, and beside her ran her young setters, Peyton and Bill.

As Dan came up with her, he checked his horse and swung himself to the ground. "Thank G.o.d I've pa.s.sed the boundary!" he exclaimed over his shoulder to the others. "Ride on, my lads, ride on! Don't prate of the claims of hospitality to me. My foot is on my neighbours' heath; I'm host to no man."

"Come, now, Beau," remonstrated Jack Morson, looking down from his saddle; "I see in Miss Betty's eyes that she wants me to carry that holly--I swear I do."

"Then you see more than is written," declared Champe, from the other side, "for it's as plain as day that one eye says Diggs and one Lightfoot--isn't it, Betty?"

Betty looked up, laughing. "If you are so skilled in foreign tongues, what can I answer?" she asked. "Only that I've been a mile after this holly for the party to-night, and I wouldn't trust it to all of you together--for worlds."

"Oh, go on, go on," said Dan, impatiently, "doesn't that mean that she'll trust it to me alone? Good morning, my boys, G.o.d be with you," and he led Prince Rupert aside while the rest rode by.

When they were out of sight he turned to one of the small negroes, his hand on the bridle. "Shall we exchange burdens, O eater of 'possums?" he asked blandly. "Will you permit me to tote your load, while you lead my horse to the house? You aren't afraid of him, are you?"

The little negro grinned. "He do look moughty glum, suh," he replied, half fearfully.

"Glum! Why, the amiability in that horse's face is enough to draw tears.

Come up, Prince Rupert, your highness is to go ahead of me; it's to oblige a lady, you know."

Then, as Prince Rupert was led away, Dan looked at Betty.

"Shall it be the turnpike or the meadow path?" he inquired, with the gay deference he used toward women, as if a word might turn it to a jest or a look might make it earnest.

"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."

"Don't touch me with your holly!" exclaimed Betty, walking faster; then in a moment she turned and stood calling to the dogs. "Have you noticed what beauties Bill and Peyton have grown to be?" she questioned pleasantly.

"There weren't any boys to be named after papa and Uncle Bill, so I called the dogs after them, you know. Papa says he would rather have had a son named Peyton; but I tell him the son might have been wicked and brought his hairs in sorrow to the grave."

"Well, I dare say, you're right," he stopped with a sweep of his hand, and stood looking to where a flock of crows were flying over the dried spectres of carrot flowers that stood up above the snow; "That's fine, now, isn't it?" he asked seriously.

Betty followed his gesture, then she gave a little cry and threw her arms round the dogs. "The poor crows are so hungry," she said. "No, no, you mustn't chase them, Bill and Peyton, it isn't right, you see. Here, Jake, come and hold the dogs, while I feed the crows." She drew a handful of corn from the pocket of her cloak, and flung it out into the meadow.

"I always bring corn for them," she explained; "they get so hungry, and sometimes they starve to death right out here. Papa says they are pernicious birds; but I don't care--do you mind their being pernicious?"

"I? Not in the least. I a.s.sure you I trouble myself very little about the morals of my a.s.sociates. I'm not fond of crows; but it is their voices rather than their habits I object to. I can't stand their eternal 'cawing!'--it drives me mad."

"I suppose foxes are pernicious beasts, also," said Betty, as she walked on; "but there's an old red fox in the woods that I've been feeding for years. I don't know anything that foxes like to eat except chickens, but I carry him a basket of potatoes and turnips and bread, and pile them up under a pine tree; it's just as well for him to acquire the taste for them, isn't it?"

She smiled at Dan above her fur tippet, and he forgot her words in watching the animation come and go in her face. He fell to musing over her decisive little chin, the sensitive curves of her nostrils and sweet wide mouth, and above all over her kind yet ardent look, which gave the peculiar beauty to her eyes.

"Ah, is there anything in heaven or earth that you don't like?" he asked, as he gazed at her.

"That I don't like? Shall I really tell you?"

He bent toward her over his armful of holly.

"I have a capacious breast for secrets," he a.s.sured her.

"Then you will never breathe it?"

"Will you have me swear?" he glanced about him.

"Not by the inconstant moon," she entreated merrily.

"Well, by my 'gracious self'; what's the rest of it?"

She coloured and drew away from him. His eyes made her self-conscious, ill at ease; the very carelessness of his look disconcerted her.

"No, do not swear," she begged. "I shall trust you with even so weighty a confidence. I do not like--"

"Oh, come, why torture me?" he demanded.

She made a little gesture of alarm. "From fear of the wrath to come," she admitted.

"Of my wrath?" he regarded her with amazement. "Oh, don't you like _me_?" he exclaimed.

"You! Yes, yes--but--have mercy upon your pet.i.tioner. I do not like your cravats."

She shut her eyes and stood before him with lowered head.

"My cravats!" cried Dan, in dismay, as his hand went to his throat, "but my cravats are from Paris--Charlie Morson brought them over. What is the matter with them?"

"They--they're too fancy," confessed Betty. "Papa wears only white, or black ones you know."

"Too fancy! Nonsense! do you want to send me back to grandfather's stocks, I wonder? It's just pure envy--that's what it is. Never mind, I'll give you the very best one I've got."