“It is on the third shelf, the left side.  Major Churchill, you understand that, for all that has been said, I must yet go my way?”

“Yes, Fair, I understand,” said the other.  “Do what you must—­and God help us all!”

CHAPTER XXXIV

FAIRFAX CARY

The December frost lay hard upon the ground, and a pale winter sky gleamed above and between bare limbs of trees.  In Vinie Mocket’s garden withered and bent stalk showed where had been zinnia and prince’s feather, and the grapevine over the porch was but a mass of twisted stems.  The sun shone bright, however, on this day, and as there was no wind, it was not hard to imagine it warm out-of-doors and the spring somewhere in keeping.  It was the week before Christmas, and the season unwontedly mild.

Vinie, seated upon the doorstep in the sun, a grey shawl around her shoulders and her pink chin in her hand, stared at the Ragged Mountains and wondered when Tom was coming to dinner.  A grey cat purred in the sun beside her.  Smut the dog, lying in a patch of light upon the porch floor, broke out of a dream, got up, and wagged his tail.

“Who do you hear, Smut?” asked Vinie. “I think it ith Mr. Adam.”

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?”