"Granddaddy, have you forgotten that this is Christmas morning?"
"Indeed I had, my dear," answered the Colonel. "It has been such a terrible Christmas morning, and that poor little black boy suffers so that it put everything else out of my mind."
Without a word, Betty showed the Colonel the gifts that were meant for Kettle. Aunt Tulip, who was a great knitter, had knitted him four pairs of good woolen socks. Uncle Cesar had bought him, at the village store, a top and a bag of marbles, treasures which Kettle had never owned in all his short life. The Colonel had given him a new suit of clothes, and Betty had bought him a pocket-knife. Betty's tears dropped upon these things as she showed them to the Colonel.
"Such a willing little fellow," said the Colonel, with a break in his voice.
In the cupboard also lay Kettle's gifts. Kettle was not equal to writing, although he could read a little, but with infinite labor he had printed on slips of paper the names of those for whom his little presents were meant. Aunt Tulip had a butter paddle, fashioned by Kettle himself. He had a little fund of his own, which he had earned in the summer by selling soft crabs in the little village, and this he had expended according to his best judgment, but the selections made Betty smile through her tears. Knowing the Colonel was fond of reading, Kettle had bought from a travelling salesman a book entitled "The Principles of Hydraulics in Mining." For Uncle Cesar was a yellow cravat with blue spots, and for Betty was his principal gift--a large brass brooch, with a huge imitation emerald in it. Betty put all these things back carefully, weeping the while. "Let us hope, my dear," said the Colonel, "that the little fellow will live to see many Christmas days."
In the afternoon Betty relieved Aunt Tulip at Kettle's bedside. Dr. Markham came again, and was secretly surprised to find the boy still living, though unconscious. In spite of the deadening drug that made him unconscious of his pain, Kettle would move about occasionally, muttering:
"I wonder ef ole Marse' fiddle got bu'nd up? I reckon my Chris'mus stockin' got bu'nd up, too."
A bed was made up for the Colonel in the sitting-room, and Betty was enabled to get a night's sleep by Sally Carteret's insisting on sitting up with Kettle. By that time the neighbors and friends had heard of the calamity at Holly Lodge, and all the day and evening relays of persons had come, bringing everything that could possibly be of use, making every offer of service and each insisting on carrying the whole Holly Lodge family off somewhere else. But this last kindness was gratefully declined, and, accepting such help as they needed, the Colonel and Betty determined to remain at Holly Lodge.
