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Lloyd was standing in the doorway, talking to Doctor Shelby, the white-haired physician of the village, one of her oldest and dearest friends. "Go on, Miss Holly-berry," he said. "If I wasn't such a stiff old graybeard, I'd be at it myself. There's Ranald wanting to ask you."
"This is a time for gladness; for the star of Bethlehem is shining in the sky, and the birth of the Lord is at hand." Bright glowed the Christmas-logs on the capacious hearth till every pointed leaf and scarlet holly-berry shone in the generous firelight. "Whosoever against holly doth cry, In a rope shall be hung full high."
The third afternoon she was down in the drawing-room when he came. "We'll soon be having Miss Holly-berry back again," he said, playfully pinching her pale cheek. "And without taking any nasty old medicine," she answered. "I don't mind doctahs when they can cure people without giving them pills and powdahs." The Colonel looked up sharply. "What's that?" he asked.
'The very word is Popish', he used to exclaim, 'Christ's Mass! pursing up his lips with the gesture of one who tastes assafoetida by accident. Then he would adduce the antiquity of the so-called feast, adapted from horrible heathen rites, and itself a soiled relic of the abominable Yule-Tide. He would denounce the horrors of Christmas until it almost made me blush to look at a holly-berry.
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