and the beginning of December, I was kept indoors by a cold. At last came a frost which cleared the air and dried the mud. On the second Saturday before Christmas the world was transformed; tall, silver and pearl-grey trees rose pale against a dim blue sky, like trees in some rare, pale Paradise; the whole woodland was as if petrified in marble and silver and snow; the holly-leaves and long leaves of the rhododendron were rimmed and spangled with delicate tracery.
When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among the hoar-frost, I rebelled against confinement, and the house. No longer the mists and dank weather made the home dear; tonight even the glare of the distant little iron works was not visible, for the low clouds were gone, and pale stars blinked from beyond the moon.
Lettie was staying with me; Leslie was in London again. She tried to remonstrate in a sisterly fashion when I said I would go out.
“Only down to the Mill,” said I. Then she hesitated a while — said she would come too. I suppose I looked at her curiously, for she said:
“Oh — if you would rather go alone —!”
“Come — come — yes, come!” said I, smiling to myself.
Lettie was in her old animated mood. She ran, leaping over rough places, laughing, talking to herself in French. We came to the Mill. Gyp did not bark. I opened the outer door and we crept softly into the great dark scullery, peeping into the kitchen through the crack of the door.
The mother sat by the hearth, where was a big bath half full of soapy water, and at her feet, warming his bare legs at the fire, was David, who had just been bathed. The mother was gently rubbing his fine fair hair into a cloud. Mollie was combing out her brown curls, sitting by her father, who, in the fire-seat, was reading aloud in a hearty voice, with quaint precision. At the table sat Emily and George: she was quickly picking over a pile of little yellow raisins, and he, slowly, with his head sunk, was stoning the large raisins. David kept reaching forward to play with the sleepy cat — interrupting his mother’s rubbing. There was no sound but the voice of the father, full of zest; I am afraid they were not all listening carefully. I clicked the latch and entered.
“Lettie!” exclaimed George.
“Cyril!” cried Emily.
“Cyril, ‘ooray!” shouted David.
“Hullo, Cyril!” said Mollie.
Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They overwhelmed me with questions, and made much of us. At length they were settled and quiet again.
“Yes, I am a stranger,” said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs and coat. “But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times, eh?”
“We are only too glad,” replied the mother. “Nothing all day long but the sound of the sluice — and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to hear a fresh voice.”
“Is Cyril really better, Lettie?” asked Emily softly.
“He’s a spoiled boy — I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can cade him. Let me help you — let me peel the apples — yes, yes — I will.”
She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling. George had not spoken to her. So she said:
“I won’t help you, George, because I don’t like to feel my fingers so sticky, and because I love to see you so domesticated.”
“You’ll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things are numberless.”
“You should eat one now and then — I always do.”
“If I ate one I should eat the lot.”
“Then you may give me your one.”
He passed her a handful without speaking.
“That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just finish this apple. There, I’ve not broken the peel!”
She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel. “How many times must I swing it, Mrs Saxton?”
“Three times — but it’s not All Hallows’ Eve.”
“Never mind! Look! —” She carefully swung the long band of green peel over her head three times, letting it fall the third. The cat pounced on it, but Mollie swept him off again.
“What is it?” cried Lettie, blushing.
“G,” said the father, winking and laughing — the mother looked daggers at him.
“It isn’t nothink,” said David naïvely, forgetting his confusion at being in the presence of a lady in his shirt. Mollie remarked in her cool way:
“It might be a ‘hess’— if you couldn’t write.”
“Or an ‘L’,” I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously, and I was angry.
“What do you say, Emily?” she asked.
“Nay,” said Emily. “It’s only you can see the right letter.”
“Tell us what’s the right letter,” said George to her.
“I!” exclaimed Lettie. “Who can look into the seeds of Time?”
“Those who have set ’em and watched ’em sprout,” said I. She flung the peel into the fire, laughing a short laugh, and went on with her work.
Mrs Saxton leaned over to her daughter and said softly, so that he should not hear, that George was pulling the flesh out of the raisins.
“George!” said Emily sharply, “you’re leaving nothing but the husks.”
He too was angry.
“‘And he would fain fill his belly with the husks that the swine did eat,’” he said quietly, taking a handful of the fruit he had picked and putting some in his mouth. Emily snatched away the basin.
“It is too bad!” she said.
“Here,” said Lettie, handing him an apple she had peeled. “You may have an apple, greedy boy.”
He took it and looked at it. Then a malicious smile twinkled round his eyes — as he said:
“If you give me the apple, to whom will you give the peel?”
“The swine,” she said, as if she only understood his first reference to the Prodigal Son. He put the apple on the table. “Don’t you want it?” she said.
“Mother,” he said comically, as if jesting. “She is offering me the apple like Eve.”
Like a flash, she snatched the apple from him, hid it in her skirts a moment, looking at him with dilated eyes, and then she flung it at the fire. She missed, and the father leaned forward and picked it off the hob, saying:
“The pigs may as well have it. You were slow, George — when a lady offers you a thing you don’t have to make mouths.”
“A
