"It must be very unwholesome to have rooms made so dark and damp," she
said. "I should think people might have more sense."

"Oh, it wa'n't dark a mite!" interrupted Marty, eagerly. "There wuz a
blazin' fire on the hearth in the settin'-room, an' the sun a-streamin'
into both the south winders. It made shadders on the floor, jest as it
does in the woods. I'd jest ha' liked to set down there a spell, and not
do nothin' but watch 'em."

At this moment, a low knock at the door interrupted the conversation.
Marty opened the door, and there stood Mercy herself, holding in her hands
some wreaths of laurel and pine, and a large earthen dish with ferns
growing in it. It was the day before Christmas; and Mercy had been busy
all day, putting up the Christmas decorations in her rooms. As she hung
cross after cross, and wreath after wreath, she thought of the poor,
lonely, and peevish old woman she had seen there weeks before, and
wondered if she would have any Christmas evergreens to brighten her room.

"I don't suppose a man would ever think of such things," thought Mercy.
"I've a great mind to carry her in some. I'll never muster courage to go
in there, unless I go to carry her something; and I may as well do it
first as last. Perhaps she doesn't care any thing about things from the
woods; but I think they may do her good without her knowing it. Besides, I
promised to go." It was now ten days since Stephen, meeting Mercy in the
town one day, had stopped, and said to her, in a half-sad tone which had
touched her,--

"Do you really never mean to come again to see my mother? I do assure you
it would be a great kindness."