Who ate the pink sweetmeat?

“No, don’t bother her,” whispers Alice, giving him a warning pat, as a pretty girl some years older than themselves enters the room. “She is so disappointed at getting no letter again to-day – I am so sorry, for it has quite spoiled her Christmas. Hush! don’t say I told you anything about it.”

“What mischief are you two children plotting?” Cousin Mildred tries to speak cheerily, and to turn her face so that they may not see any traces of tears about her pretty blue eyes, but there is a little quiver in her voice which betrays her.

In a moment Alice’s arm is round her neck and Bertie is consoling her after his rough and ready fashion.

“Cheer up, Cousin Milly! I’ll bet anything you’ll get a letter to-morrow.”

“I can’t do that, Bertie, I’m afraid, for the postman doesn’t come on Christmas Day.”

“Doesn’t he? What a beastly shame! I declare I’ll speak to Father” —

“No, no – your father knows all about it – it’s quite right, and I’m so glad the poor old man has one day to spend comfortably with his wife and children. I don’t quite know why Cecil has not written – but worrying about it won’t do any good. Now let us talk about something else. Alice, when you can be spared from the tree, Mother wants all the help she can get for the Church-dressing.”

“Is she down at the Church now? All right darling – I’ll come in two minutes. Isn’t it a plague about these candles? The shops are sure to be shut in Appleton the day after Christmas, and the poor children will be so disappointed if we have to put off the tree.”

“The poor, dear school-children! Oh, that is a pity. But candles – oh, dear! I don’t know how we can do without them. Is it quite impossible to send to Appleton to-day?”

“Why, to say the truth I asked Father this morning, and he said there was no one to go. You see Coachman is away for a holiday, and Sam is as busy as he can be – and there is no one else who can be trusted with a horse – and one cannot ask anybody to trudge five miles and back through the snow, though it is not at all deep.”

“And there is more snow coming, I fear,” says Mildred looking out at the grey, thick wintry sky – “it is awfully cold. Ah! there is a feeble little ray of sunshine struggling out! Well, I must go back to my occupation of measuring flannel for the old women’s petticoats – it is nice and warm for one’s fingers at any rate. And, Ally dear, tell Mother I’ll join her at the church as soon as ever I can. The keepers have brought us such lovely holly out of the woods – you never saw such wealth of berries. The wreaths will be splendid this year.”

And Mildred goes away humming a little Christmas carol, and bravely trying to forget the sore anxiety that is pressing on her heart, for the faraway soldier lover whose Christmas greeting she had so hoped to receive to-day.

“Isn’t she a trump?” cries Bertie, who can see and appreciate the effort his cousin is making. “I know she has half cried her eyes out when she was by herself, but she didn’t mean us to find it out. I say, Alice, I’ll have another try for that letter of hers, and get your candles too. Grey Plover has been roughed, and he’s as sure-footed as a goat – the snow is nothing to hurt now, and I’ll trot over to Appleton and be back in no time at all.”

“Oh, Bertie, don’t! Cousin Mildred said there was a snow-storm coming, and you might get lost like the people in the Swiss mountains” —

“Or the babes in the wood, eh? You little silly, don’t you think I’m man enough to take care of myself?”

And Master Bertie who is fifteen, and a regular sturdy specimen of a blue-eyed, sunburnt curly-haired English lad, draws himself up with great dignity and looks down patronizingly at his little sister.

Alice, of course, subsides, vanquished by this appeal, but she cannot help feeling some very uncomfortable qualms of conscience when it appears that she is to be the only person admitted into the young gentleman’s confidence.

“Don’t go bothering poor Mother about it – she always gets into such a funk, as if no one knew how to take care of themselves. And be sure not to say a word to Cousin Mildred – I want to surprise her by bringing her letter by the second post. And if Father asks where I am – oh! but that will be all right. I shall get back before he comes home from shooting” – and Bertie is gone before his sister has time to put into words the remonstrance she has been struggling to frame.

“He’ll miss his dinner – poor dear” – she thinks compassionately, but is consoled by the remembrance of an admirable pastry-cook’s shop in Appleton where the ginger-bread is sure to be extra plentiful on Christmas Eve of all days in the year.

“A real old-fashioned Christmas, Father calls it!” thinks Alice as she goes to the window and looks out at the whitened landscape, amongst which the leafless branches of the trees stand out like the limbs of blackened giants. The snow which has been falling at intervals for some days is not deep, but there is a heavy lowering appearance about the sky betokening that the worst is yet to come. The little birds, which Alice has been befriending ever since the winter set in, come hopping familiarly round the window, and one saucy robin gives a peck to the glass, as if to intimate that a fresh supply of crumbs would be acceptable.

Alice feels in her pocket for a bit of bread and finding some fragments hastily scatters them on the window-ledge, promising a better repast by-and-bye. Then she gives a last look at the half-dressed Christmas Tree, shakes her head over the insufficient candles, and murmuring that Bertie really is the dearest boy in the world, runs off to aid her mother in decorating the old village Church.

Meanwhile Grey Plover is swiftly and resolutely bearing his rider over the half-frozen snow in a manner worthy of his name. He is a handsome, strong-built pony, Squire Chetwynd’s gift to his son on his last birthday, and a right goodly pair they make, at least in the fond father’s eyes.

Perhaps if either Mr. Chetwynd, or his steady old coachman had been at home, Master Bertie would not have found it quite so easy to get his steed saddled for that ten miles’ ride, with the ground already covered with snow, and the heaviest fall that has been known for many a year, visibly impending.

There is a keen north-easter blowing, but Appleton lies to the west, so that for the present it only comes on the back of his neck, and Bertie turns up his collar to keep out the flakes which seem scattered about here and there in the air, and trots bravely along, whistling and talking by turns to his pony, and to a wiry little terrier, which is really Cousin Mildred’s property, but in common with most other animals, is deeply devoted to Bertie.

“Steady, lad, steady,” and Bertie checks his steed as they descend a somewhat steep incline, bordered by high hedges, of which the one to the north is half concealed by a bank of snow.

“I declare I never thought it could have grown so deep in the time,” mutters Bertie to himself. “I hope it won’t snow again before to-night, or I shall have some work to get home. What’s the time? Just two – all right – two hours more daylight at any rate – more if a fog doesn’t come on. Good-day, John, Merry Christmas to you,” as the village carrier, his cart heavily laden with Christmas boxes and parcels, passes him leading his old horse carefully up the hill.

“The same to you, Master Bertie, and many of them. How be the Squire and Mrs. Chetwynd, and” —

“All well, thank you, John, but I can’t stop to go through the list now. I’ve to get to Appleton and back as soon as I can.”

“To Appleton! Laws now, Master Bertie, don’t ’ee do nothing of the kind. As sure as I’m alive there’s awful weather coming, and you and that little pony will never get back if you don’t mind.”

“Little pony indeed, John! Grey Plover is nearly fourteen hands – and do you suppose I care for a snow-storm?”

Old John points to the wall of gray cloud advancing steadily from the north-east.

“You just look yonder, Master. If that don’t mean the worst storm that we have known for many a long year, my name’s not John Salter.”

“Well, then, I must make all the more haste. If I don’t turn up by church-time to-morrow, you and old Moss will have to come and dig me out! Come along, Nettle!” and whistling to the terrier which has been exchanging salutations with the carrier’s old half-bred-colly, Bertie canters on.

“I don’t think I can find time to go home to luncheon,” says Mrs. Chetwynd casting an anxious eye round the half-decorated church, which presents a one-sided appearance, two columns being beautifully wreathed with glossy dark leaves and coral berries, shining laurel and graceful ivy, and the third as yet untouched.

“Mildred, when you come back, will you and Alice bring me some biscuits, and I can eat them in the vestry. The daylight now is so short, and I think to-day is even darker than usual. We shall have to work very hard to get finished in time.”

“I’ll stay with you,” replies her cousin, “and Alice shall bring provisions for us both,” and by this means the secret of Bertie’s absence from the early dinner remains unobserved.

It is snowing heavily as Alice, in fur cloak and snow-boots, trips back to the church some quarter of a mile distant from her home.

The girl is beginning to be very anxious about her brother, and sorely repents her extorted promise of secrecy as to his intentions.

“We are getting on,” says Mrs. Chetwynd glancing round, “I wonder if your father will look in on his way back from shooting. I suppose Bertie must have gone to join him, as we have seen nothing of the boy. I hope they won’t be late; the snow is getting quite deep.”

A hasty knocking at the Church-door makes Alice start and turn so pale that her cousin laughs at her for setting up nerves. Before however they can open it the intruder makes his own way in, and proves to be the stable-helper, with a face so white and scared that the alarm is communicated to Mrs. Chetwynd.

“Milly,” she says faintly, “there has been some accident – ask him – quick – Herbert’s gun” —

“No, no,” says her cousin bent only on re-assuring her, “speak out, James – don’t you see how you are frightening your mistress?”

“If you please ma’am, Gray Plover has come home alone, and” —

“The pony! Master Bertie wasn’t riding?”

“Yes, ma’am – he started to ride to Appleton about half-past one o’clock” —

“To ride in such weather!”

“Yes, ma’am – he would go – and the Squire not being at home I could not hinder him – and now the pony’s just galloped into the yard, and” —

“Mary, dearest, don’t look so frightened!” cries Mildred, fearing her cousin is going to faint. “I daresay he got off to walk and warm himself, and the pony broke away – Bertie rides so well, he would not be likely to have a fall” —

“But the snow! Isn’t it quite deep in some places, James?”

“Yes, ma’am – six or seven feet they say in the drifts, though most part of the road was pretty clear this morning. But it’s been snowing heavily these two hours and more, and nearly as dark as night – and Grey Plover must have been down some time or other, for when he came in the saddle was all over snow!”

Mrs. Chetwynd gives a gasp, and for a moment her cousin thinks her senses are going, but with a brave struggle she rallied her powers.

“James, you and the gardeners had better go off at once, two of you try each road to Appleton, to meet Master Bertie. Alice dear, run up to the house, and fill father’s flask with a cordial – and see that they take it, and – and a blanket – and tell some one to go and meet your father – he will know best what to do – I must go myself to look for my boy – God help me – what shall I do if he has come to harm?”

“You cannot walk, darling,” and Mildred tenderly leads her to one of the open seats, and strokes her hands in loving but vain efforts at encouragement – “don’t imagine anything bad till it comes – Bertie is sure to have taken some of the dogs with him, and they would have come home to tell us if anything were wrong!”

“There was only little Nettle at home,” Mrs. Chetwynd answers with a sigh – “Jerry and Nell are out shooting with Herbert, and the new dog is no use. Oh Milly, my bright bonny boy, where can he be? See how dreadfully dark it has grown and the cold – think if he should be lying helpless in the snow!”

About the same time on this December afternoon a young man is getting out of the one-horse omnibus which the George Hotel (a small third rate inn, albeit the best in Appleton) usually sends down to meet the afternoon train from London. He is a tall soldierly looking person, with bright dark eyes, and a brisk imperative manner which ensures a certain amount of attention even from the surly landlord.

But when, instead of demanding luncheon, or any creature comforts for himself, the traveller orders a “dog-cart, or any sort of trap with a good horse,” to take him to Mr. Chetwynd’s house, five miles distant, the host demurs.

“Impossible! The omnibus horse is the only one roughed, and he has been out twice to-day already. Besides there is likely to be a heavy fall of snow before night: even if a horse and trap could get to Edenhurst there would be no possibility of getting back before night-fall – mine host is very sorry to disoblige the gentleman, but it is quite out of the question.”

The young man, who is evidently not accustomed to stolid opposition, begins to chafe, and his dark eyes give an angry flash. However he forces himself to speak quietly and persuasively, and even descends to bribery, in his anxiety to spend his Christmas at Edenhurst.

Still the landlord remains obdurate, the fact that he has a big commercial dinner impending at five o’clock making him the less inclined to spare any of his men.

“Well, hang it all!” cries the young man impatiently, “then I declare I’ll get there on my own legs. I can carry my bag,” swinging it stoutly over his shoulder as he speaks, “and you must find some means of sending the other things over to-morrow morning at latest. It would be too tantalizing,” he adds to himself, “after coming two thousand miles to see the little woman, if we could not spend our Christmas Eve together after all.”

And turning a deaf ear to the landlord’s remonstrances and prophesies of evil, he sets forth briskly on the road, well-known to him although untrodden for two long years. “Dear little soul,” he is saying to himself as he strides through the snow, “what a surprise it’ll be to her! I am half sorry now I did not write – perhaps she’ll be startled – but I don’t believe in sudden joy hurting anyone. I wonder if she’ll be altered – I hope not – the little face couldn’t be sweeter than it was. And Herbert Chetwynd is a rare good fellow – what a welcome I shall get from him and his kindhearted wife – it’s almost worth toiling and broiling for two years in India to come home for such a Christmas. I wonder if that jolly pickle Bertie is much grown! Capital little companion he used to be I remember. How far have I come? Oh! just past the second milestone – the snow is getting plaguy deep and I can hardly see ten yards ahead – I can’t say it is pleasant travelling – how I shall appreciate the splendid fire in the big hall fire-place at Edenhurst. They will be burning the Yule-log for Christmas. How I shall enjoy taking up all the old home customs once more. I wonder if the Waits go round now? What a brute I used to feel, lying snug in bed and listening to the poor little shivering mortals singing outside in the frosty morning air, almost before it was light – but I believe Herbert’s wife and Milly always took care that they had a warm breakfast and a toast at the kitchen fire afterwards – but hulloa! I say, what little dog are you, out alone in the snow in this lonely part of the road? Lost your master, have you, poor little beggar? Never mind – you had better follow me home to Edenhurst for to-night – they wouldn’t refuse a welcome even to a stray dog on Christmas Eve. I say, you are very pressing in your attentions my friend – I’m afraid you are on a wrong tack, sniffing and prancing around me – I’m not your master nor have I the honor of that gentleman’s acquaintance, unless – by Jove, if it isn’t little Nettle – the dog I gave Mildred when I went to India. What can she be doing out here alone? And what does she want me to do I wonder?” as the terrier, delighted at the sudden recognition dances round him more energetically than ever, catches his hand and the skirts of his coat gently in her teeth, then runs on a little way ahead, looking back to see if he is following. “Lead on – I’ll follow thee – that seems to be what you want me to say, eh, little Nettle? All right there!” and the traveller’s two long legs contrive to make quite as rapid progress along the road as the terrier’s four short ones especially as the poor little animal occasionally lights on a snowy heap softer and deeper than the rest and is nearly lost to sight altogether for some seconds.

Presently however, in spite of all obstacles she scurries on ahead, and stops short with a joyful self-satisfied bark, in front of a dark object which is half sitting, half lying in a bed of partially melted snow under the hedge – an object which upon closer inspection proves to be a slight curly-headed boy, clad in heather-colored jacket and knicker-bockers. His cap has fallen off, and his eyes are nearly closed, as he leans back on his cold couch, with an expression of half-conscious suffering on his young face.

“Come, this won’t do!” exclaims the traveller in a tone of no small surprise and concern. “I say, young sir, have you forgotten that this is December, and not exactly the season for enjoying life in gypsy fashion?”

The boy’s eyes open dreamily and scan the keen brown moustached face which is bending over him, but he neither moves nor makes any response. The traveller lays a hand on his shoulder and speaks again, somewhat more peremptorily.

“I say, young one, get up – do you hear? Do you want to get frozen to death?”

If there is some roughness in the tone, there is none in the manner and gesture with which dropping on one knee in the snow, the traveller proceeds to chafe the cold nerveless hand, which, in answer to this appeal, the boy slowly tries to lift. He points to his left foot which is stretched out in an uncomfortable twisted attitude, and his new friend is not long in discovering that a sprained ankle is the cause of the mischief.

A serviceable many-bladed knife is quickly produced, and the boot dexterously slit open, to the instant relief of the injured limb, which is much swollen.

The boy gives a gasp of satisfaction, and murmurs “Thank you,” as he makes a still unsuccessful effort to scramble to his feet.

“Take care – let me give you a hand. Poor little chap – ” as the patient collapses again, “here, have a pull at this,” taking a restorative from a medicine case in an inner pocket; “that’s right – you’ll be able to tell me all about it presently. Nettle, little lass, it’s a pity you can’t speak, isn’t it?”

“How do you know the dog’s name?” the boy inquires, now almost roused into curiosity.

“How do I know it? Why because she belonged to me for six months before I went to India, and then I gave her to the lady who I hope is to be my wife now I’ve come back.”

“What – are you Cecil Gordon?”

“The same – at your service ‘Cousin Cis,’ as your little sister used to call me, if, as I suppose, you are my old playfellow Bertie. Two years have made a difference in your size, my lad – and this snow gave your face a blue sort of look which prevented my knowing you at first. And now tell me what pranks have you been playing to get into such a plight?”

“I rode Grey Plover to Appleton this afternoon to get – some things the girls wanted – and the snow-storm came on heavily – and it got horribly dark as you see – and somehow we stumbled into a snow-drift – I’d marked the bad places as I came and thought I could keep clear of them – but the darkness misled me, and the snow got into my eyes. We rolled over together – and my foot caught in the stirrup and came out with an awful wrench – but it’s ever so much better since you cut the boot open.”

“And then I suppose, the pony made off?”

“Yes, I believe so. I felt awfully sick when I got up, but I managed to crawl out of the drift, for I’d just sense enough left to mind being smothered. I don’t suppose I could have lain here very long when you came, or I should have been frozen.”

“Well the great thing will be to get you home as soon as may be – but the snow is getting so deep that it won’t be very pleasant travelling. Can you bear to put that foot to the ground? No? Then don’t try – my legs must do duty for two.”

“Oh! I’m too heavy – you’ll never be able to carry me, especially through the snow.”

“Nonsense! If you begin making difficulties I shall have to treat you as one of our fellows (so the story goes) did the wounded sergeant in Zululand.”

“Oh what was that?”

“Why the enemy were close upon them, and B – (that was the officer) was bent upon rescuing the sergeant of his troops who was wounded and helpless, and whose own horse had been killed. So he told him to get up behind on his horse – and the sergeant refused, and told B – to save himself and leave him to perish, and B – answered in peremptory fashion, ‘If you don’t obey orders at once, I shall punch your head!’”

“Don’t punch mine to-day,” says Bertie with a rather feeble laugh. “It feels so queer and top-heavy. I’ll give you leave to try as soon as I’m all right again.”

“All right. But now about this getting home? Here! you take the bag, and I’ll carry you. Will you ride in ordinary pick-a-back fashion, or as I’ve seen soldiers do at what they call ‘chummy races’ lengthwise across their bearer’s shoulders?”

Bertie prefers the former method, and with some little difficulty is hoisted into the required position.

“How are they all at home?” asks Captain Gordon, after they have advanced some little way in silence.

“Very well – and very jolly – only to-day Cousin Milly was out of spirits, because” —

“Well what?” The tone is sharp and impatient.

“Because you hadn’t written, and she did so want a letter for Christmas. And I thought there might be one by the afternoon post – they do come then sometimes.”

“And that was the reason for your taking that crazy ride through the snow? My dear little fellow,” and the brisk voice is very kind and gentle now, “I am sorry to have been the cause of all this trouble.”

“Oh! never mind – it was partly too to get Alice the candles she was bothering about for the Christmas Tree. – By-the-bye, I hope they’ve not fallen out of my pocket – no, here they are, all right.”

“I’m afraid you found no letter at the post-office after all. You see the orders for home came to us rather suddenly, and when I found I could be in England as soon as a letter could reach, I didn’t write. I am so sorry it happened so!”

“You had lots of real fighting among the Afghans, hadn’t you?”

“Yes – I’ll tell you about it some day. Just now I want my breath for something more than talking. How deep the snow is between these high hedges!”

“Yes – if only we could get over into the fields it would be better – and there is a short cut too.”

“Can we find it?”

“I’ll try – but my head is so stupid somehow – don’t I hear some one whistling behind us?”

As Bertie speaks a young laboring man comes up to them, looks with some surprise at the pair, and answers with a surly grunt to Captain Gordon’s inquiry as to the nearest way to Edenhurst.

“Why Jack, you can show us!” cries Bertie impatiently.

“There’s a stile somewhere that leads right past your mother’s cottage, and then we can get across Higgins’ fields.”

“If there is a cottage I shall be glad of five minutes’ rest by the fire-side,” says Cecil who is beginning to get decidedly “blown.”

“I was just thinking what an awfully lonely road this was.”

“Jack Brown is a surly fellow,” whispers Bertie in his ear, but not so low but that the man catches the last words.

“Surly! And who wouldn’t be, young master, I’d like to know, in my place? Didn’t the Squire have me up for poaching, and didn’t I get three weeks in jail along of snaring a few worthless pheasants? Much he or anyone would have cared if my old mother had starved the while!”

“For shame!” Bertie’s wrath is making him quite energetic. “As if mother and Mildred didn’t go to see the old woman nearly every day, and make sure she wanted for nothing.”