Chapter V: Connie’s Christmas

After leaving Connie, Kenneth went to say good-night to Mrs. Hart, to whom he said, very deferentially: “I know from my father how warm your house is everywhere, and I know our bedrooms are cold. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll make a fire in your room in the morning before you are awake. I’ll be very still.”

When Kenneth began to speak, Mrs. Hart gave him a haughty stare. But as he went on her countenance relaxed, and she began for the first time to notice what a fine face and figure he had, and how well he spoke.

“Quite gentlemanly for the country,” she thought, and smiled graciously, saying she did not like to trouble him herself, but she presumed Connie might be cold.

Kenneth, who would have gone through fire and water for Connie, was up by six o’clock next morning, and when Mrs. Hart awoke an hour and a half later, there was a bright fire crackling on the hearth, and her room was as comfortable as her own luxurious boudoir at home. Connie was not there. She had awakened early, dressed herself after a fashion, and gone down to reconnoitre. The deacon was going to the barn and she went with him and saw him feed Sorrel, and herself threw some hay to him from the loft above, nearly tumbling through the opening in her eagerness to look down and see him get it. She saw the young kittens and the twelve cats taking their breakfast in two pans in the barn, as it was too cold to utilize the trough outside. She saw and was nearly knocked down by the dog, Chance, who, Kenneth said, was a Russian Collie, with royal blood in him. After her first scare at his boisterous greeting, Connie had no fear of him, and kept her hand on his shaggy mane as she made the tour of the barn, inspecting everything. She tried to catch a hen which she found upon its nest in a corner. But it eluded her grasp and flew cackling indignantly at being disturbed. And all the time she was asking innumerable questions about what was so new to her.

She was always asking questions, troublesome ones sometimes, which betrayed what her aunt never intended to have divulged. Mrs. Hart had given her sundry charges to hold her tongue, but she might as well have tried to stem Niagara. Connie liked to talk, and generally expressed her opinion freely. She had told the deacon that she didn’t like the looks of his working clothes, and didn’t quite like the smell of the barn, with its cows and pigs and chickens and cats. Then it suddenly occurred to her that it was Christmas morning, and she said, “Ar’n’t I going to have a present?”

“Why, that’s a fact. You or’to have,” the deacon replied, and Connie continued: “I had a lot at home, and I’m going to buy one for Auntie any way,—one of your antiques, if they are not too high. Where are they?”

The deacon looked perplexed and asked what she meant.

“Why,” she replied, “Auntie said there were piles of quaint, old-fashioned things here, and the dictionary says _quaint_ means antique, and Auntie likes ’em, the older and more worn they are the better. Where are they, and will two dollars get a good one?”

She was looking earnestly at the deacon, who stroked her fair hair and replied: “I guess I’m the biggest antique on the premises, and I’m not for sale. The house and everything in it is old-fashioned,—antique; that’s what your auntie meant, not that we have a lot of truck to sell; but I’m sorry we have no present for you.”

“Oh, never mind,” Connie replied. “I have heaps at home,—eight dolls and a big doll house; but, oh, my auntie said I was not to tell you that, because—” She put her hand over her mouth a moment, then, as if the effort were too great, she burst out, “what is a _hunks_, and are you one?”

“What do you mean?” the deacon asked again, and Connie replied: “Auntie says you are, and wouldn’t like it if you knew she gave twenty-five dollars for my doll house.”

The deacon was not at all sensitive and at once understood the situation.

“Connie,” he said, with a laugh, “a hunks, in this case, means a man who has the charge of a little girl’s money and does not want her to spend it so fast that by-and-by it will all be gone.”

“Oh, yes, I see. I’m glad it isn’t anything bad, because I like you,” Connie said, holding his hand and hippity-hopping back to the house, where her aunt, who had come down and was looking for her, met her in some dismay.

“Connie,” she exclaimed, “where have you been, and what a fright you are. Your dress not half buttoned, nor your boots either. There’s hay in your hair, and a feather, too, and you smell of the barn. Come upstairs at once and make yourself tidy.”

There were traces of tears on Connie’s face when she came down to breakfast after having been scolded and made tidy, but she kept up bravely, for Kenneth told her he was to take her for a walk when breakfast was over, and she was soon ready, in her blue cloak and hood, which the boy thought the prettiest garments he had ever seen.

“Now, show me things,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “I like it, it is all so big and free, without carts and cars and folks, and you see so far.”

The day was unusually warm for the season. The soft rain in the night had melted the snow, leaving a clear path to a ledge of rocks in a huckleberry pasture, against which a rough shed had been built as a shelter for the sheep. It was open on one side, commanding a fine view of the country for miles to the west and south. Here Kenneth took Connie, who was fond of nature in all its aspects, and expanded like some delicate flower in the warm sunshine, with the lovely panorama of mountains and hills and valleys and woods spread out before her.

“It’s just like a picture, and I like it,” she said, seating herself upon an old wooden chair which Harry had brought there with his book the summer before when he wanted to read and not be asked to do anything. The deacon had few sheep now, and as those were kept in another pasture, the inclosure was very clean and covered with grass, which looked fresh and green after the rain and the snow.

“Just the place for a Christmas tree! I have always had one for years and years, ever since I can remember,” Connie said, with the air of a woman of fifty.

Kenneth thought a moment and then replied: “Tell me what you do. I’ve never seen one, but have an idea.”

“Never seen a Christmas tree!” and Connie looked as if she thought him a heathen as she began a graphic description of the little trees her aunt had for her in the bow window of the dining-room.

Ornaments and tapers and dolls and candy and toys of every description made a most bewildering picture to Kenneth. He might manage the tree, he thought, as he glanced at a clump of pines not far away, but the ornaments and ribbons and tapers and dolls and candy discouraged him. Then suddenly he remembered the little sled in the garret, and the walnuts and butternuts and cakes of maple sugar in the pantry, and a picture-book of animals given him as a reward of merit by one of his teachers when he was a little shaver. Then there was the knife bought for Harry, and the mittens his mother had knit, and the skates his father had bought. He could put these on the tree and make believe Hal was there to get them. There had been no presents thought of for him. Everything was for Hal, but he didn’t mind. If others were happy he was, and he had all he could desire in the little girl sitting so quietly in the old chair and looking off upon the landscape.

“Connie,” he said at last, “would you like a tree here in the sheep cote, even if it didn’t have all those jimcracks? A real country tree, I mean?”

“I guess I would,” she answered, emphasizing each word with a kick upon the rounds of the chair.

“Well, then,” Kenneth said, “I think I can manage it this afternoon, but you must say nothing about it.”

Connie was accustomed to being told, “Not a word out of your head,” by her aunt. The words generally came just the same, but in this instance she kept them in, and through the dinner said nothing, nor after it, when Kenneth disappeared and no one knew where he was, although his mother thought she saw him once come from the garret and once from the pantry. To Connie the time seemed very long, with only the dog to play with. She couldn’t find the kitten, and finally stole out to the barn to hunt for it and the other cats, the most of whom ran from her and hid. She saw the pigs and threw them some apples and looked for the hen she had frightened in the morning. Then she went up the stairs, and with the pitchfork threw some hay down to Sorrel as she had seen the deacon do, and was wondering what to do next, when “Connie! Connie!” came up to her from Kenneth, who was looking for her. His tree was ready and he had come to take her to it. There was more hay in her hair and dress than there had been in the morning, but Kenneth brushed it off and the two were soon on their way to the sheep cote, where Connie went into screams of delight at sight of a pretty little pine which Kenneth had cut down and trimmed and fixed securely in its place. In front of it was the sled, its red trimmings showing well against the green background. Tied here and there among the boughs was a curious collection. The old picture-book, with a big elephant turned to the front, papers of maple sugar and walnuts, and butternuts, which Kenneth had cracked in the barn; two or three bunches of grapes and some rosy-cheeked apples; the knife intended for Harry, the mittens and skates, which Kenneth had managed to spirit away when his mother did not see him. There were also some sandwiches for the dog, who seemed to know what was going on and ran in circles and stamped his feet and barked until Kenneth called him to order and made him lie down by the chair.

That was all, but Kenneth had arranged everything so artistically that the effect was very good, especially as he had mixed with the greens a few scarlet holly berries, which he had found in the garden, and a red candlestick in which a candle was burning. Connie was eager to inspect everything. But Kenneth kept her back.

“I am to call off, and you come up as you do at home,” he said, taking his place by the tree, on which the low western sun was shining, lighting it up here and there, as if there were many tapers upon it instead of one poor tallow candle.

The sled was the first thing given, and Connie grew so excited over it that until twice repeated she did not hear her name when called for the maple sugar, which she began at once to eat, as she did the grapes which came next. The book and nuts were last, and by that time her mouth was full, and there were smears of sugar and grape juice on her face and stains on her blue cloak. But she was very happy, and better pleased than she had been at home with the costliest toys. Alternating with her name was that of Chance, who, with wonderful sagacity, seemed to comprehend the matter and sat with great gravity by Connie until his name was called. Then he went with a bound to the tree, and making short work of his sandwich walked back again to his post, waiting for the next call.

“Now, then,” Kenneth said, when the last paper of nuts was handed to Connie, “I want you to make believe you are Harry and come up for him.”

“All right,” was Connie’s reply, as she put into her mouth a piece of sugar so big that she could scarcely articulate plainly.

The knife was given out, and the mittens and the skates, and Connie put them on her sled and seemed waiting for more.

“That’s all, except the candle,” Kenneth said, while Connie’s face grew troubled.

“Ar’n’t you to have anything? Is everything for Harry and nothing for you?” she asked; and Kenneth replied, “I guess that’s about the size of it.”

“Why?” Connie continued. “Why everything for Harry and nothing for you? Is he a better boy?”

“I don’t know,” Kenneth replied. “Perhaps he is. He has always had more things than I. You see his father and mother are dead, and then he is a great deal handsomer than I am.”

“Ar’n’t you handsome?” Connie said, rolling the piece of sugar from side to side in her mouth and letting more of it run down her face and on to her cloak.

“What do you think?” Kenneth asked, with a laugh, while Connie scrutinized him so closely that he felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair. “Well?” he said, after a moment; and Connie answered, “I don’t know whether you are as handsome as Harry or not, and I don’t care. You are the bestest boy and have the goodest face I ever saw, and I love you.”

Before Kenneth could reply Connie was at his side, saying to him: “You sit down and I’ll call your name. You’ve got to have something.”

“But there’s nothing for me except the candle,” Kenneth suggested; and Connie persisted: “Yes, there is something Harry will never get,—never. You’ll see. Sit down,” and throwing off her hood and pushing back her hair with sticky hands, she stood up very straight by the tree, while Kenneth sat down and waited.

“Kenneth Stannard!” she called, and Kenneth went forward, meeting the impulsive little girl, who threw herself upon him, and, winding her arms around his neck and pressing her face against his, said: “I give myself to you!”

Just for one moment Kenneth was taken by surprise, and didn’t know what to do. Then, releasing the arms clinging so close that they nearly strangled him, he kissed the mouth besmeared with sugar and grape-juice, and said: “Thank you, Connie. You are the nicest present I could have. I shall keep you always; and now don’t you think we’d better be going home? The sun is nearly down and the candle burnt out. I’ll draw you on the sled.”

“Yes, but—” and Connie hesitated a moment. “There is something we ought to do. Have a kind of service as they do in the church, only leave out ‘miserable sinners’; there’s so much of that. Jean took me to a Sunday-school tree last year and they had carols about the ‘Silent Nights,’ and ‘Hark, the Heralds,’ and ‘Peace on Earth,’ and what they believed. We ought to say that anyway, or sing something.”

Remembering the previous night and the Stir Up collect, Kenneth began to feel very crawly, and said, “I can’t sing.”

“I can. Listen,” was the quick response, as Connie began a carol familiar to her.

But her mouth was too full of sugar to allow of much execution, and after a few croaks she stopped, a little discomfited by her failure. Brightening soon, she said: “Any way we can bow our heads and say what we believe, only you must keep me going. Begin!”

She put her hands together and dropped her head and waited while Kenneth grew more and more crawly. This was worse than the Stir Up. In the church he had always attended he had never heard the Creed that he could remember; certainly he had never learned it, and he finally said so. Connie’s head came up with a jerk, and her eyes flashed as she exclaimed: “For the pity’s sake and the Old Harry, don’t you know about the ‘I believe,’ nor the ‘miserable sinners,’ nor anything?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Kenneth answered meekly. “But I’m going to if I can find the book which has these things in it. What is it?”

“Why, the Bible, of course,” Connie answered, with great assurance.

Kenneth didn’t think so. He had read the Bible through, hired to do so by his mother, and he could recall nothing of the “Stir Up” in it, or “I believe,” or “miserable sinners,” except in a general way. But there was a book somewhere which had it all, and some time he meant to get it and be posted.

As he had proved so incompetent to help her, Connie gave up the service she had thought necessary, and they were soon on their way home, Connie on the sled with her cloak tucked carefully around her, and in her lap the picture-book, skates, mittens and knife, and whatever of sugar and nuts and grapes she had not eaten. It was very muddy, and part of the way was up hill, but Kenneth never minded it all, and would have walked miles with his little chatty load, who was creeping into his boy’s heart so far that it was doubtful if the heart of man could ever dislodge her.

“The bestest Christmas I ever had,” was Connie’s verdict of a day which in after years would come back to her and to Kenneth both, over and over, with a wish that what had been might be again, although they knew that was impossible.