For some weeks, during the latter part of November 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 petrified¹ in marble and silver and snow; the holly²-leaves and long leaves of the rhododendron were rimmed³ and spangled with delicate tracery.

 

When the night came clear and bright, with a moon among the hoar-frost, I rebelled against confinement⁴, 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 remonstrate⁵ 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 curiously⁶, for she said:

 

"Oh—if you would rather go alone——!"

 

"Come—come—yes, come!" said I, smiling to myself.

 

Lettie was in her old animated⁷ 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 hearth⁸, 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

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