Then there came the final scene, when most of the plums were secured, and Dorothy sprinkled the dish with salt. The ghastly light that flickered on the hot faces round the table was a part of the amusement.
The last flicker had died out, and the wide kitchen was nearly in darkness, for the fire had burnt low, when Bryda felt her hand seized and pressed to Mr Bayfield's lips.
'Remember Easter,' he said.
His words smote her with sudden fear. She snatched her hand away, and exclaimed,—
'Bring back the candles, Betty, and we will mix the punch.'
Again the low voice said, in tones which were almost a whisper,—
'Unless your promise is kept, this will be the last Christmas here for yonder old man.'
'I made no promise, sir,' was the reply; 'the promise was yours.'
'Come, sir, come,' the old farmer said, 'draw closer to the hearth, and let us drink to your health. Yon old punch bowl,' he said, with a sigh, 'belonged to my father, and his father before him. I would not care to part with it, nor of nothing they called their own.'
'Part!' Mr Bayfield exclaimed; 'no, by George! why should you. We won't talk of parting to-night, though you know, sir, the most precious things you possess will have to be parted with sooner or later.'