“There is no use in stopping,” cried Phœbe, as the house came in sight, “it is all shut up and dark, and aunt Katherine has surely gone with the others.”
This was so likely to be the case that Roger urged on his horse, and again overtook the carriage. When they reached the field in which the Thorn-tree stood it was already filled with flickering, moving lights, and was all astir with people and voices.
Roger jumped down, lifted Phœbe, and then tying Dobbin to an oak sapling which still rustled with dried and brown leaves, he turned to his sister and, hand in hand, they hastened to where the Thorn was growing, and around which stood a large group.
The tree was bare, leafless, and looked as if dead.
“If that blooms to-night,” said a woman, “’twill be a miracle.”
“It is always a miracle,” said a grave and sober-looking man by her side.
Phœbe held closely to her brother’s hand; but the scene was too wonderful to promise much talking on her part. The darkness, the dim and shadowy trees and bushes, the tramping of unseen horses, the confusion of voices, the laughing and complaining of children, the moving lights, the thronging people, and in the centre of it all a ring of light and a dense group around the tree, made a wonderful picture.
Nearer and nearer the people pressed, the parish beadle in advance, with his watch in his hand, a man by his side swinging his lantern so that the light would fall directly upon it. Many eyes were bent on it.
It grew late, and the crowd became silent, gathering closer around the tree.
“Twenty minutes of twelve—a quarter of twelve—five minutes of twelve!” proclaimed the beadle.