Betty leaned back in the rockaway as old Whitey trotted briskly along the frozen road. She was in one of those happy dreams that are the glorious heritage of sweet and twenty. Her mind was divided between the charms of dashing university students and charming young officers, together with speculations as to whether her white muslin gown really would last through Christmas week. There were several alarming rents in it already, for Betty had enjoyed herself very, very much. Then her thoughts turned to soberer things, such as the way the brave old Colonel stood the translation from Rosehill to Holly Lodge, and the necessity for making both ends meet, and the building of a stable for their one cow. For Betty's outside and inside by no means corresponded. On the outside, she was all laughter and singing and dancing, like a silver fountain in the golden sun. Inside, she was the most level-headed, the most thoughtful, and the most courageous creature in the world. Betty was practical and sentimental, tender and cruel, gay and sad, bold and timorous, and always Betty. CHAPTER VI KETTLE AND OTHER THINGS Meanwhile, things had happened at Holly Lodge. The Colonel had taken out his violin and played dreamily the old airs, von Weber's "Last Waltz," "Love Not," and "Bygone Hours." At sixty-eight, one has many Christmas days to look back upon. The faithful heart of Aunt Tulip in the kitchen was touched when the delicate strains of the violin floated upon the air. "Ole Marse, he jes' cipherin'." Ciphering, in the negro language, means brooding with sadness and melancholy. But then Aunt Tulip's attention was distracted by the newcomer, Kettle. The boy, huddled close to the fire, his hands locked around his knees, his shining black eyes fixed on the blaze, was filled with deep content; he was warm, he had had a good supper, and he had escaped the dangers of the screaming steamboat. Those who had left him behind had not been too kind to him, and he had no regrets for them. Suddenly his enjoyment of the _dolce far niente_ was rudely interrupted by Aunt Tulip, who herself seldom indulged in the sweet-do-nothing. "Look a-heah, boy," she said, "I'm agoin' to give you a good washin' and put you to bed. Boys oughter be abed by this time, so they k'yarn' git in no mo' mischief 'twell to-morrer mornin'."