After an hour's refreshing sleep, Mrs. Randal woke to see the faces of her two children bending over her. Just then the bells broke out once more, so loud and joyous that they almost shook the old cottage roof with their swinging.
"I'm better," said Mrs. Randal. "Polly dear, is that you? A happy Christmas!"
CHAPTER XIV
SEVEN YEARS AFTER
"So, Lily, from those July hours,
No wonder we should call her."
—E. B. BROWNING.
Once more a summer day. The children, not long out of school, were loitering in the warm shadows of the village street, for the sun was still high in dazzling, cloudless blue, and there was no air stirring, not even enough to flutter the topmost leaves of the great trees that stood round about Markwood. The roses and the jessamine were out on the blacksmith's cottage, and its old yellow front looked just the same, opening on the little green yard. Beyond was the row of stately white lilies in full flower, and beyond them again the red rosebushes and the clusters of pinks. The house door stood open, but all was still, except for the sound of clanking iron that came from the forge. There the blacksmith of Markwood worked as usual, and was never in want of work, for his name, still more than those of his father and grandfather, was known all round the country as that of a clever and conscientious workman.
He was alone in the forge that afternoon, for the usual group of horses, which often came from miles away, had tramped off down the street, and though John in the prime of life was a more sociable man than in his younger days, he did not care now any more than then to have his workshop made a gossiping place for the village. Still, at thirty-five, he was the leader of all the best young fellows about in their cricket and other games, but still he was a man with few intimate friends—his home and his trade were enough for him.
He was finishing some work that afternoon, whistling a tune as his hammer clanked on the anvil, looking very black and very hot, with his shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, when the light from the door was suddenly darkened. John looked up, pushing back his hair from his forehead, and then stood upright, balancing his hammer and staring with bewildered eyes. In the doorway stood a tall young girl, dressed in white, with a shady hat, under which her fair hair fell in curling ripples to her shoulders. She was slender and pale, but though she did not look strong, the smile that shone in her blue eyes spoke of perfect happiness. She looked as if her life was all made of summer days, and better than this, the sweetness of her expression seemed to show that she loved making others happy. As she stood looking at John, the pale cheeks flushed a little, and she almost laughed at his wondering astonishment, but she said nothing.
"Why—Lily!" said John, under his breath, and then he too coloured suddenly, as if ashamed of himself. "I beg your pardon—I never thought of seeing you like that—a grown-up young lady."
"I'm not grown-up—I'm only fourteen," said Lily, and she stepped inside the forge and held out her hand. "Oh, John—I'm so glad to see you again. You're just the same—and how is mother?"