Who ate the pink sweetmeat?

“What’s the row?” cries schoolboy Bertie, planting two good-natured, if somewhat grubby hands on his sister’s shoulders. “Alice in the dumps? That is something quite new. Can’t you cut some big candles in two and stick them about? Here’s Cousin Mildred – ask her. She’ll be sure to hit upon something.”

“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?”