It was, on the whole, a happy, though solitary winter, and a very comfortable one to others at Holly Lodge, besides Betty. The comfort was to a great degree brought about by Kettle. The boy not only picked up chips and made the fires, and churned, and milked the one cow, but was helpful at every turn to Uncle Cesar and Aunt Tulip. The first thing had been to provide him with some warm clothes, and by the united efforts of Betty and Aunt Tulip this had been accomplished. Then, one bitter day, when there was nobody to go for the mail to the village post-office, two miles away, Kettle, without saying a word to anybody, slipped off. He knew that Betty, whom he adored, was always looking for letters, and Kettle, in his little heart, determined that she should not look in vain that day. He was missed, and Aunt Tulip resigned herself to the belief that the boy had run away again, carrying with him a much better outfit than that with which he had arrived. But Aunt Tulip’s unjust suspicions were falsified when in an hour or two Kettle turned up again with the Colonel’s weekly newspaper and a letter and a large box of sweets for Betty, from a source which she knew very well. Aunt Tulip gave Kettle a wigging for “runnin’ off ’thout tellin’ nobody,” but he was merely admonished not to go again without giving notice. The expedition, however, turned out to be very profitable for Kettle, as the keeper of the country store, who was also the postmaster, had engaged Kettle in conversation, and had ended by presenting him with two shirts of a gaudy pink, and a cap, which saved Kettle’s one hat for Sundays.

Aunt Tulip was a pessimist on the subject of boys, and was always expecting an outbreak of depravity on Kettle’s part. The form in which this came was altogether unusual. Kettle loved music, and whatever he might be doing, if he heard the strains of the Colonel’s violin, or especially Betty’s touch upon the harp in the sitting-room, it would have been necessary to chain him up to keep him away. He would sit on a little cricket in a corner, his black, shiny eyes full of rapture, and his mouth one vast grin. Kettle was in a heaven of delight when the Colonel, of evenings, tuned up his violin, and, sending for Uncle Cesar, “ole Marse” and his “boy” would make sweet, old-time music between them. In a little while, however, Kettle began to long that he too might call the soul of music forth from the strings. On the rare occasions when the Colonel was able to go out for a walk, or when he was taking his afternoon nap more soundly than usual, Kettle would creep to the fiddle-case, and, opening it, would let his little black hand wander among the strings, and, bending his ear down, he would listen as if it were the music of the spheres. Uncle Cesar caught him at this one day, and, seizing him by the collar, gave him a shaking which made Kettle’s teeth rattle. Kettle shrieked, and Betty came running into the kitchen, expecting to find a tragedy in progress.

“Miss Betty,” said Uncle Cesar, “this heah impident little black nigger has been openin’ ole Marse’ fiddle-box an’ mine, and pickin’ at the strings, an’ I kinder believe he has been a-pickin’ at the strings of your harp, Miss Betty. Did you ever heah of such owdaciousness sence Gord made you, Miss Betty?”

“No, I never did,” answered Betty promptly. And then she said sternly, with an accusing forefinger, to Kettle:

“Remember, Kettle, if ever I catch you meddling with the harp or with the violin, I will certainly give you a good switching, myself. Do you understand?”

“Yessum,” answered Kettle, with solemn emphasis.

This engagement was reinforced by Uncle Cesar promising him an additional switching in case he did not get his deserts in the first one.

For a week or two, Kettle was able to keep his fingers off the harp-strings and out of the fiddle-box, but one morning, when the winter sun was shining, and Colonel Beverley had gone out for a little turn on the lawn, Kettle fell from grace. Suspicious sounds were heard in the sitting-room. Aunt Tulip softly opened the door, and there was Kettle down on his knees before the fiddle-case, picking away in rapture. Aunt Tulip grabbed him, and called wrathfully to Uncle Cesar to go and get a switch. Uncle Cesar, full of vengeance, went out and returned with what might better be described as a sapling, it was so long and stout. Just then Betty entered the room, and Aunt Tulip told her of Kettle’s felonious acts.

“Of course, Aunt Tulip, you must give him a whipping,” said Betty positively.

The whole party then marched into the kitchen, and Kettle was ordered to take off his jacket, which he did with much natural reluctance. Then, Aunt Tulip, flourishing the long switch around, proceeded to harangue Kettle indignantly:

“Ain’t you ’shamed yourself, you good-for-nothin’ little nigger, after all ole Marse an’ Miss Betty done for you, ter sneak in the settin’-room, an’ be ruinin’ ole Marse’ fiddle-strings, an’ meddlin’ with Miss Betty’s harp? I tell you what, boys has got ter git switched sometimes, an’ I’m a-gwine ter give you a switchin’ this day you will remember to the Day of Judgment.”

With this awful preamble, Aunt Tulip raised the switch, and Kettle, before a single stroke had descended, burst into howls. Aunt Tulip’s hand faltered.

“I declar, Miss Betty,” she said apologetically, pausing with the uplifted switch in the air, “it’s mighty hard ter give a switchin’ ter a chile as ain’t got no father nor mother; but Kettle cert’n’y ought to have it, an’ I think Cesar kin give it ter him better’n I kin.”

With this, the switch was handed over to Uncle Cesar. Kettle redoubled his yells. The prospect of the switch in Uncle Cesar’s stalwart arm was indeed terrifying. Uncle Cesar, to make the ceremony more impressive, took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and lifted the switch on high. But it did not come down on Kettle’s back when it was expected. Uncle Cesar’s hand began to tremble.

“It’s mighty cur’rus, Miss Betty,” said Uncle Cesar, hesitating and rubbing his arm, “but I kinder got my hand out with switchin’ boys, an’ the rheumatiz is right bad this mornin’. Anyhow, I reckon I better put off this heah switchin’ ’twell the rheumatiz gits better.”

“It can’t be put off, Uncle Cesar,” answered Betty decisively. “The truth is, Aunt Tulip and you are squarmish about giving Kettle what he deserves. Now, I believe in discipline, and if you promise a boy a switching, you ought to give it to him. So give me the switch.”

The instrument of torture was duly handed over to Betty. Kettle suddenly stopped his wailings, and his mouth came wide open as if it were on hinges. Betty, too, by way of nerving herself for the task, began to give Kettle a lecture.

“Now, Kettle,” she said sternly, “your conduct has been perfectly outrageous. You were told not to touch my harp or the violins.”

“I know it, Miss Betty,” whimpered Kettle, his arm to his eyes, “but them fiddles, they jes’ seem a-callin’ an’ a-callin’ ter me fur ter come an’ play on ’em an’ that air harp—Miss Betty, ef I could play a chune on one of them fiddles, I’d ruther do it—I’d ruther do it——”

Kettle’s imagery failed him in finding a simile strong enough.

“But you were told not to touch them, and you disobeyed. Now you are going to get a whipping for it,” replied Betty, catching her under lip in her little white teeth, and raising once more the five-foot and inch-thick switch. When it had been lifted above him before, Kettle had bawled loudly, but at the sight of Betty standing on tiptoe with the switch grasped in both hands, Kettle’s open mouth suddenly extended in a huge grin, and he burst into a subdued guffaw. In vain, Betty held the switch aloft and tried to screw up courage to bring it down on Kettle. It was quite impossible with Kettle grinning before her and chuckling openly. Betty herself suddenly burst out laughing, and dropped the switch.

“The only thing I can think of to do with you, Kettle,” she said, “is to teach you to play the fiddle.”

At that, Kettle’s mouth, if possible, came wider open than ever.

“Lord, Miss Betty!” he cried, “does you mean you is a-gwine to put the bow in my han’ and lemme scrape them strings with it?”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Betty. “I will teach you your notes, and Uncle Cesar will show you how to handle the bow.”

From that day began Kettle’s musical education. The Colonel sitting in his great chair, would smile at Betty with the music-book, instructing Kettle in the notes which she knew. Kettle was extremely stupid at learning his notes, and Betty frequently promised him the long delayed switching for his negligence. But as soon as Uncle Cesar took charge of him and put the bow in his hand, Kettle learned with amazing rapidity.

“I am afraid, my dear,” the Colonel would say to Betty on these occasions, “that Kettle can master the concrete better than the abstract. However, he must learn his notes.”

Kettle progressed so fast that in the course of a couple of months he enjoyed the privilege of playing a second to the Colonel’s fiddle. The boy’s arms were barely long enough to use a grown-up fiddle. As he played, he shuffled about in rapture, and Betty taught him to do the back-step and double shuffle while he played. It was a new amusement in the Colonel’s quiet life to have Kettle come in the sitting-room in the evening after supper, and play and dance for him, while Kettle enjoyed the performance beyond words.