Markwood is an old-fashioned place, and goes to bed early. Even the bells were silent now, and though it was Christmas Eve the houses were shut up; no lights glimmered through the fog when Mary turned the corner into the village and hurried along the street. Almost sooner than she expected she was close to the blacksmith's forge: her hand was on the old gate once more, she was lifting the familiar latch. But before going further she stood still and looked at the cottage; a red light rose and fell in the kitchen window where the blind was not drawn down, and the window above shone with a steadier light; that was Mrs. Randal's room. Mary stood at the gate trembling, partly with cold, partly with the fear of being too late, most of all with extreme nervousness at meeting John again. She had never known she was so weak, and felt surprised at herself, but at that moment she nearly turned round and ran back to the farm.
The house seemed to be quite silent. Mary collected herself, told herself this was no time for shyness, that her old friend wanted her help, whatever John might think or say. She went with light steps along the yard and looked in at the window. The kitchen was empty, only the old tabby cat lay asleep before the fire. Mary did not knock, but gently tried the latch of the door; it opened easily, she stepped quickly in and shut it again, so that the cold mist might not follow her. Then she stood in the middle of the room listening.
If John was awake, his quick ears would certainly have heard some one come in; if he had fallen asleep from fatigue, poor fellow—well, she could wait a minute or two and then go softly up to his mother's room. She had hardly time to think this before she heard a sound upstairs; a chair moved; slow, careful footsteps crossed the floor, and now were coming down. Mary suddenly felt suffocated by her shawl, and threw it off; there she stood in the ruddy firelight, in the middle of the room, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, a strange vision indeed to John, who came down cautiously without a light to see what unexpected visitor Christmas Eve Lad brought him.
For a moment they looked at each other in silence, and then Mary, seeing that she must break the ice, came towards him and held out her hand.
"You'll forgive me, John?" she said, in a very low, tremulous voice, "and let me nurse your mother."
John's answer was not made in words. A few minutes later, when he had a little recovered from his first bewildered joy, he told Mary that his mother was better that evening, wonderfully better. Her cough had been less troublesome all day; she had been far less feverish, and now, not long ago, she had dropped off into a beautiful sleep.
"I thought them bells would keep her awake," said John; "but no, she lay there and listened as if it was sweet music, and went to sleep as happy as a child, with a smile on her face. I believe she knew you was coming."
"I think the bells made me want to come," said Mary. "They always sound so like old times, don't they? Let me go up and see her."
"You must be as quiet as ever you can. Oh, Mary, I've got more than I deserve. I thought maybe I should never see you again."
"Well—I told you once I'd wait all my life," said Mary; "but to-night I found I couldn't wait any longer."