"Find out who shot Mr. Cary?" asked Gaudylock. "They may--there'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?" "Why, of course," answered Deb, with bravery. "I am going to have a lovely time. Uncle Dick says I can do what I please with the schoolroom, and Miranda and I and the quarter children--we're going to decorate. Unity's going to show us how, and Scipio's going to put up the wreaths. The quarter's to have its feast just the same, and I'm going to help Unity give out the presents. I expect it will be beautiful!"