"Shouldn't I? What was it, Polly?"
"About the wolves being so cruel and cunning, and coming out on dark days, or in the evening, as hungry as could be, and eating up every one who came in their way. You tell, Bessie; you always remember the best."
"I don't want to remember," repeated the child, shuddering. "But do you really think it is true, father?"
"Quite true. When the dark days come, yes, that's the time for them to be prowling about. And let the wolf once get his feet over a poor man's threshold, and there is little chance of escape. What, tears!" added he, as the child laid her head against his knees, and began to cry. "He shan't get in here to hurt my little Bessie while her father's alive. Well keep him out, never fear."
Mrs. Reardon was not one of those wives who are always saying to their husbands, "I told you how it would be." All she did was to make haste and get the tea ready, together with the unwonted addition of a plate of buttered toast, over which the children soon grew cheerful, forgetting for the time all their fears and troubles as children only can.
Neither did she refer to the subject afterwards when they had gone to bed in the little closet before mentioned, leaving Matthew and his wife sitting out the dim fire, apparently occupied by their own thoughts, or occasionally exchanging a few words—but never reading, or praying, or once remembering that it was the Lord's day, and not theirs, which was now quietly drawing to a close.
Presently Mrs. Reardon asked her husband whether he was ready to go to bed.
"Not just yet," was the reply.
His wife flung a shawl over her shoulders, and shivered with the cold. After a time she spoke again.
"It must be nearly eleven o'clock, Matthew."