Some subtle spell must have linked itself in Mrs. White's brain with the
dainty red partridge berries. Her eyes filled with tears, as she lifted
the vines gently in her fingers, and looked at them. Mercy watched her
with great surprise; but with the quick instinct of a poet's temperament
she thought, "She hasn't seen them very likely since she was a little
girl."

"Did you use to like them when you were a child, Mrs. White?" she asked.

"I used to pick them when I was young," replied Mrs. White,
dreamily,--"when I was young: not when I was a child, though. May I have
one of them to keep?" she asked presently, still holding an end of one of
the vines in her fingers.

"Oh, I brought them in for you, for Christmas," exclaimed Mercy. "They are
all for you."

Mrs. White was genuinely astonished. No one had ever done this kind of
thing for her before. Stephen always gave her on her birthday and on
Christmas a dutiful and somewhat appropriate gift, though very sorely he
was often puzzled to select a thing which should not jar either on his own
taste or his mother's sense of utility. But a gift of this kind, a simple
little tribute to her supposed womanly love of the beautiful, a thoughtful
arrangement to give her something pleasant to look upon for a time, no
one had ever before made. It gave her an emotion of real gratitude, such
as she had seldom felt.

"You are very kind, indeed,--very," she said with emphasis, and in a
gentler tone than Mercy had before heard from her lips. "I shall have a