Nor must it be supposed that history handed down thus, crystallized. The light and shadows were for ever shifting, and when any new incident occurred the other cogent incidents in the chain were instantly magnified and dilated upon, and for the time being stood forward boldly in the foreground of the pedigree under consideration, remaining the salient points until such time as some new event shed lustre upon another set of incidents.
In view of the sensation of the moment, the “drunken uncle” loomed like an ominous spectre across the long vistas of the Lansing genealogy. For the moment he was regarded as the direct progenitor of all the Lansings, although he had died unmarried fifty years before Lanty’s birth.
Mrs. Simpson added another half finger to her fateful stocking, with its triune thread, ere she quitted Mrs. Ranger’s that night.
“Well, I declare,” she said, as she stood on the step in the greyness of the falling night. “I declare! I most forgot the slip Mabella gave me. It’s on the bed where my bunnit was,” she added to little Jimmy Ranger, who went in search of it. “It’s real rare that geranium is, apple scented—smell,” breaking off a leaf, pinching it, and holding it under Mrs. Ranger’s nose. “Come up as soon as you can,” she added, descending the two steps.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Ranger, “we’re going to Brixton for the blankets that have been spun of last year’s wool, next week, and p’raps we’ll drop in on the way home.”
“Do,” said Mrs. Simpson, “and you kin stay supper and visit a spell; our cider’ll be made by then. Len’s been over to the cooper about the mill this week. But if you should hear anything in the meantime, jest put on your bunnit and come acrost the fields neighbourly.”
“Yes, I will,” said Mrs. Ranger; “I guess things is comin’ to a head; I wouldn’t be surprised any day——”
There was a long pause.
“Nor Me,” said Mrs. Simpson emphatically. “Good night.”
“Good night. It gets dark real soon now.”