“Oh, just a basinful of snow,” said Stephen lightly. “Supper ready? Gerard—” to his eldest boy—“draw that curtain a bit closer, to keep the wind off Mother. Now let us ask God’s blessing.”
It was a very simple supper—cheese, honey, roasted apples, and brown bread; but the children had healthy appetites, and had not been enervated by luxuries. Conversation during the meal was general. When it was over, the three younger ones were despatched to bed with a benediction, under charge of their eldest sister; young Gerard seated himself on the bench, with a handful of slips of wood, which he was ambitiously trying to carve into striking likenesses of the twelve Apostles; and when the mother’s household duties were over, she came and sat by her husband in the chimney-corner. Stephen laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Ermine,” he said, “dear heart, wilt thou reckon me cruel, if I carry thy thoughts back—for a reason I have—to another snowy night, fourteen years ago?”
“Stephen!” she exclaimed, with a sudden start. “Oh no, I could never think thee cruel. But what has happened?”
“Dost thou remember, when I first saw thee in Mother Haldane’s house, my telling thee that I could not find Rudolph?”
“Of course I do. O Stephen! have you—do you think—”
Gerard looked up from his carving in amazement, to see the mother whom he knew as the calmest and quietest of women transformed into an eager, excited creature, with glowing cheeks and radiant eyes.
“Let me remind thee of one other point,—that Mother Haldane said God would either take the child to Himself, or would some day show us what had become of him.”
“She did,—much to my surprise.”
“And mine. But I think, Ermine—I think it is going to come true.”