In the Whirl of the Rising - Bertram Mitford

“You do. You are always setting somebody on his legs again.”

“Ah! ah!”—holding up a warning finger. “Who is likely to suffer from ‘swelled head’ now?”

“Well, it seems to me you are going to get no rest on earth. You spent about six months pulling everybody out of holes, and now no sooner do we get here for good than you start in the same line again,” said Clare softly.

“It’s different, dearest. On that side one got them out of hot water; on this side one gets them out of cold—oh, very!” with a shiver at the recollection of his recent ice-bath.

Pearly and grey the Christmas gloaming deepens, a few stars peep frostily out, and in the gloom of the fir-woods an owl is hooting melodiously. And the stillness, with the peace of the hour, is sweet to these two, as it rests upon them.

The End.