Some arrangements had to be made immediately for the family at Holly Lodge. It was found that, although the roof of the kitchen was burned off and the roof over Betty’s room was badly damaged, three rooms on the lower floor were uninjured, except by water. In the midst of the drenching rain, planks were nailed over the burned part of the roof, and the kitchen and Betty’s room were made temporarily habitable. Fortescue promptly invited the whole household over to Rosehill, and to bring Kettle with them where he could be nursed, but this was gratefully declined by the Colonel. It was certain that as soon as their plight was known all the neighbors and friends of the Holly Lodge family would offer refuge to them. But at present it was impossible to move Kettle.

When everything possible had been done, Fortescue said good-by, leaving a couple of his servants at Holly Lodge to do what was necessary. Colonel Beverley thanked Fortescue heartily, but that only hastened his departure. When he was gone, Betty went up to her room, from which the open sky was excluded by the planks nailed over the roof, and from which the floods of water had been wiped up and a great fire started. As she looked in her mirror, by the pale light of a cloudy morning, she realized that it was Christmas day. The thought gave her a shock; she had forgotten it until then. She took off her simple evening gown, which was torn and muddy and stained, removed the wreath from her head, and put on the plain black wool gown she wore every day. Then, going downstairs, she reduced things to order as much as possible. Some holly wreaths had been hung in the windows, and the Colonel’s portrait decorated with the usual laurel leaves, and the little gifts for Christmas were in a cupboard in the sitting-room. The Colonel was sitting before the great fire, looking so pale and spent that Betty’s heart was moved for him. She went up to him, and, kissing him softly, said:

“Granddaddy, have you forgotten that this is Christmas morning?”

“Indeed I had, my dear,” answered the Colonel. “It has been such a terrible Christmas morning, and that poor little black boy suffers so that it put everything else out of my mind.”

Without a word, Betty showed the Colonel the gifts that were meant for Kettle. Aunt Tulip, who was a great knitter, had knitted him four pairs of good woolen socks. Uncle Cesar had bought him, at the village store, a top and a bag of marbles, treasures which Kettle had never owned in all his short life. The Colonel had given him a new suit of clothes, and Betty had bought him a pocket-knife. Betty’s tears dropped upon these things as she showed them to the Colonel.

“Such a willing little fellow,” said the Colonel, with a break in his voice.

In the cupboard also lay Kettle’s gifts. Kettle was not equal to writing, although he could read a little, but with infinite labor he had printed on slips of paper the names of those for whom his little presents were meant. Aunt Tulip had a butter paddle, fashioned by Kettle himself. He had a little fund of his own, which he had earned in the summer by selling soft crabs in the little village, and this he had expended according to his best judgment, but the selections made Betty smile through her tears. Knowing the Colonel was fond of reading, Kettle had bought from a travelling salesman a book entitled “The Principles of Hydraulics in Mining.” For Uncle Cesar was a yellow cravat with blue spots, and for Betty was his principal gift—a large brass brooch, with a huge imitation emerald in it. Betty put all these things back carefully, weeping the while. “Let us hope, my dear,” said the Colonel, “that the little fellow will live to see many Christmas days.”

In the afternoon Betty relieved Aunt Tulip at Kettle’s bedside. Dr. Markham came again, and was secretly surprised to find the boy still living, though unconscious. In spite of the deadening drug that made him unconscious of his pain, Kettle would move about occasionally, muttering:

“I wonder ef ole Marse’ fiddle got bu’nd up? I reckon my Chris’mus stockin’ got bu’nd up, too.”

A bed was made up for the Colonel in the sitting-room, and Betty was enabled to get a night’s sleep by Sally Carteret’s insisting on sitting up with Kettle. By that time the neighbors and friends had heard of the calamity at Holly Lodge, and all the day and evening relays of persons had come, bringing everything that could possibly be of use, making every offer of service and each insisting on carrying the whole Holly Lodge family off somewhere else. But this last kindness was gratefully declined, and, accepting such help as they needed, the Colonel and Betty determined to remain at Holly Lodge.

The next morning, Kettle was conscious and in terrible pain, but an occasional sharp cry was the only complaint wrung from him. Whenever Betty would say, her eyes brimming with pitiful tears, “Kettle, I know the pain is dreadful,” Kettle would reply stoutly:

“Naw, ’tain’t, Miss Betty. ’Tain’t as bad as you think.”

For days and nights this went on, but Kettle hung on gallantly to his life, and in the midst of his agony would gasp out:

“Doan’ you cry, Miss Betty. This heah pain is a-gittin’ better all the time.”

At the end of a week Dr. Markham said that Kettle would get well. His burns were very bad, but his face and hands were not disfigured, and although his body would be scarred for life, he might yet be restored to health. The kitchen and Aunt Tulip’s room had been repaired, and Kettle was transferred to Aunt Tulip’s room, while Uncle Cesar occupied the little cubby-hole where Kettle had slept.