She did not look at Ellesworth often. Her eyes dropped. Her cheeks were like red camellias. She felt in a hurry all of the time. The young man himself took the situation out in looking at his watch. It seemed to him as if the world were turning over too fast. He thought of what he meant to do stolidly, notwithstanding. They went out and gathered mistletoe in the swamps. He climbed trees and tore his hands and fell into the water with zest. They brought home a barrelful of it. He thought how he had bought it at twenty-five cents a spray on Washington street. He held a great branch of it behind Georgiella over her head, and looked at her. She started like a wild animal, and kept ahead of him all the way home. On Christmas morning Ellesworth got up early--he had hardly slept; he could not rest, and went softly downstairs. The door into the dining-room was open, and she was there before him. She stood before the Ming vase. The mistletoe branch to which he had fastened his present, and which he had set into the vase to look like a little Christmas tree, lay tossed beneath her feet. The pearly white berries were scattered on the floor. The mortgage was in her hand--trust deeds, principal notes, interest notes, insurance policy. She was turning the papers over helplessly. She looked scared and was quite pale. Her bosom heaved boisterously. She heard him and confronted him. She managed to stammer out,-- "What, sir, does this mean?" It required a brave man to tell her in her present mood; but he did. "It only means that I love you," said Ellesworth point blank. The girl went from blinding white to blazing crimson, but she stood her ground. The mortgage papers shook in her hands. He thought that she was going to tear them up. To gain time, for he dared not approach her, he stooped and picked up the disdained mistletoe. When he had raised himself she shot out this awful question, looking at him as she did when they first met. "Are _you--He_?" The young man bowed his head before her. If he had set fire to her place, or robbed her father's grave, she could not have regarded him with a more crushing scorn. She tried to speak again, but her passion choked her. "I--I give you back your home," he protested humbly. "It is mine no longer. It is your own Don't blame me. I love you." "My father did not bring me up to take valuable presents from--Boston--gentlemen!" blazed the Southern girl. She waved him aside, swept by him without another look, and melted out of the room. But he noticed that she took the mortgage papers with her. In the course of the morning he threw himself upon the mercy of Mrs. McCorkle. "I have a right," he said; "I want to make her my wife." "Georgiella is not behaving prettily," said Mrs. McCorkle severely. "If a Northerner _does act like_ a gentleman, the least a Southern girl can do is to behave like a lady. I will speak to Georgiella, sir."