Who ate the pink sweetmeat?

“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.”