Fleda's eyes were too dim to see white birch or holly, and she
had no longer the least desire to have the latter; but with
that infallible tact which assuredly is the gift of nature and
no other, she answered, in a voice that she forced to be
clear, "O yes! thank you, Grandpapa;" — and stealthily dashing
away the tears, clambered down from the rickety little wagon,
and plunged with a _cheerful_ step at least, through trees and
underbrush to the clump of holly. But if anybody had seen
Fleda's face! — while she seemed to be busied in cutting as
large a quantity as possible of the rich shining leaves and
bright berries. Her grandfather's kindness, and her effort to
meet it had wrung her heart; she hardly knew what she was
doing, as she cut off sprig after sprig, and threw them down
at her feet; she was crying sadly, with even audible sobs. She
made a long job of her bunch of holly. But when at last it
must come to an end, she choked back her tears, smoothed her
face, and came back to Mr. Ringgan smiling and springing over
the stones and shrubs in her way, and exclaiming at the beauty
of her vegetable stores. If her cheeks were red, he thought it
was the flush of pleasure and exercise, and she did not let
him get a good look at her eyes.

"Why, you've got enough to dress up the front room chimney,"
said he. "That'll be the best thing you can do with 'em, wont
it?"

"The front room chimney! No, indeed I wont, Grandpa. I don't
want 'em where nobody can see them, and you know we are never
in there now it is cold weather."