ere's no
telling. Every day makes a trail like that more overgrown and hard to
read. But if Fairfax Cary is truly like my Cherokee, I'd not care to be
the murderer, even five years and a thousand miles from here and now.
You may be sure the Cherokee got _his_ man. Now you take the mistletoe
and I'll take the holly, and we'll make a Christmas bower to dance in."
He raised his great armful and went into the house singing,--

"Once I was in old Kentucky,
Christmas time, by all that's lucky!
Bear meat, deer meat, coon and possum,
Apple-jack we did allow some,
In Kentucky.

"Roaring logs and whining fiddle,
Up one side and down the middle!
Two foot snow and ne'er a flower,--
But Molly Darke she danced that hour,
In Kentucky!"

The hunter's surmise was correct. Fairfax Cary rode slowly on upon the
old, familiar way to Fontenoy. All the hills were brown, winter earth
and winter air despite the brightness of the sunshine. A blue stream
rippled by, pine and cedar made silhouettes against a tranquil sky, and
crows were cawing in a stubble-field. Cary rode slowly, plodding on with
a thoughtful brow. The few whom he met greeted him respectfully, and he
answered them readily enough, then pursued his way, again in a brown
study. The Fontenoy gates were reached at last, and he was about to bend
from his saddle and lift the heavy latch, when a slim black girl in a
checked gown made a sudden appearance in the driveway upon the other
side. "I'll open hit, sah! Don' you trouble. Dar now!"

The gate swung open, Cary rode through, and Deb appeared beside Miranda.
"We've been walking a mile," she announced. "Down the drive and back
again, through the hollow, round the garden, and up to the glass
door--that's a mile. Are you going to stay to supper?"

Cary dismounted and walked beside her, his bridle over his arm. "I don't
think so, Deb,--not to-night."

"I wish you would," said Deb wistfully. "You used to all the time, and
you most never do now. And--and it's Christmas, and we aren't going to
decorate, or have a party, or people staying!" Deb's chin trembled. "I
don't like houses in mourning."

"Neither do I, Deb."

The colour streamed into his companion's small face. "I didn't mean--I
didn't mean--I forgot! Oh, Mr. Fairfax,--"

"Dear Deb, don't mind. I wish you were going to have a Christmas as
bright as bright! Won't there be any brightness for you?"

"Wh