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. The next morning, Kettle was conscious and in terrible pain, but an occasional sharp cry was the only complaint wrung from him. Whenever Betty would say, her eyes brimming with pitiful tears, "Kettle, I know the pain is dreadful," Kettle would reply stoutly: "Naw, 'tain't, Miss Betty. 'Tain't as bad as you think." For days and nights this went on, but Kettle hung on gallantly to his life, and in the midst of his agony would gasp out: "Doan' you cry, Miss Betty. This heah pain is a-gittin' better all the time." At the end of a week Dr. Markham said that Kettle would get well. His burns were very bad, but his face and hands were not disfigured, and although his body would be scarred for life, he might yet be restored to health. The kitchen and Aunt Tulip's room had been repaired, and Kettle was transferred to Aunt Tulip's room, while Uncle Cesar occupied the little cubby-hole where Kettle had slept. CHAPTER XIX CALM WEATHER