"We're going to have a heavy fall of snow if I'm not much mistaken," he said. "You'll like that, eh, Edgar? I remember when I was your age there was nothing I liked better than a snowballing match with my school-fellows. Rare fun we used to have."
"Fancy, John, Cousin Becky is coming to Beaworthy after all," Mrs. Marsh informed him. "She's going to stay with Martin. Edgar heard from Roger that she is expected to-night."
"Well, I suppose your brother knows what he is about," Mr. Marsh replied, shrugging his shoulders. "You'll have to ask the old lady to spend a day with you, Janie."
"And ask Aunt Mary, too," said Edgar eagerly; "I like Aunt Mary. But don't have Polly, mother."
"Why not?" inquired Mr. Marsh, looking amused.
"She's such a cheeky little girl," the boy replied, recalling how on one of the rare occasions when he had taken tea with his cousins at their home, Polly had nick-named him "tell-tale" because he had threatened to inform his mother of something which had happened to displease him. He knew better than to do that now, but he seldom encountered Polly without she addressed him as "tell-tale."
"Edgar, your boots are wet!" cried Mrs. Marsh as, in an unwary moment, the little boy drew his feet out from under the chair. "I can see the water oozing out of the leather. Go and change them at once, or you'll catch a terrible cold. How could you say they were not wet when you must have known differently? You ought to be ashamed to be so untruthful."
Edgar was in no wise disconcerted by this rebuke; but he left the drawing-room and went upstairs to his own room, where he discarded his snow-sodden boots for his slippers, and then stood at the window looking out into the garden, which was separated from the high road by tall elm trees, where the rooks built their nests every spring. The snow was falling very fast now, covering the world with a spotless mantle of white; and Edgar's mind reverted to the visitor whom his cousins expected to welcome to their home that night.
"I suppose mother thought she'd be in the way if she came here," he reflected shrewdly, "but I should say she'll be much more in the way in Uncle Martin's poky little house. It's really very kind of Aunt Mary to have her. Roger says his mother is always kind, and that we all ought to try to be—for Jesus' sake, because He loves every living thing, even animals. I suppose that's true, it's in the Bible about His noticing if a sparrow falls, so it must be, but I never thought much of it till Roger spoke to me about it the day after I'd hit that dog. I didn't mean to hurt it—I only meant to frighten it; I suppose it was cowardly. Well, I won't be unkind to an animal again; and I'm glad I didn't make a fuss about Roger's having struck me, especially as he was sorry afterwards."
It was cold in his bedroom, so in a short while the little boy went downstairs. In the hall he encountered Titters, his mother's favourite Persian cat; but when—mindful of his resolution to be kind to animals in future—he essayed to stroke her, she tried to escape from him, and arched her back and raised her fur in anything but a friendly fashion. Truth to tell, he had been in the habit of teasing her, and she consequently mistrusted his intentions. However, he caught her, picked her up, and was carrying her into the drawing-room in his arms when she suddenly gave him a vicious scratch on the cheek, whereupon he dropped her with a cry of mingled anger and pain.