“A thousand pardons. I was carried away by the magic force of old associations. Still, I must say, it was a beautifully mixed party; that is, an equal share of wealth and wit. Poor dear Carraways! He certainly did keep up Christmas. I believe there was absolutely a plum-pudding boiled, and put out cold for the robin-redbreasts.”
“Poor little things,” cried Hodmadod, “how they’ll miss it!”
“Possibly not,” said Mrs. Jericho with a proud look. “There may be others here, Sir Arthur, equally hospitable to robins.”
“Yes, Sir Arthur,” exclaimed Agatha. “Rather than they should go without, I’d make the pudding myself.”
“Bravo! Beautiful!” cried Candituft. “Should you ever be lost in a wood, be sure of it, dear young lady—the robins will remember your goodness.”
“Faugh!” said Jericho, at the same time looking a fierce rebuke at Candituft; who with the magic of his self-possession turned the censure into a jest. “Let us go in.”
An old woman stood behind the opened door. An old, calm, sorrowful face looked timidly at the new-comers. Once or twice she sighed heavily; and then looked angrily as though, in her way, resenting the ill-manners—as they seemed to her—of the visitors.
“You needn’t follow us—we know the house well”—said Mrs. Jericho to the old dame.
“I know you do,” said the old woman. “And so being, I hope you’ll use it tenderly—poor thing.”
“Tenderly! Why”—cried Monica—“the old woman talks as if the house was alive.”