Chapter Seven.
Twelve months passed away, and Christmas came again, with its frost and snow and sunshine—its blazing fires, its good cheer, and its merry greetings.
Many a Christmastide had now passed over the head of our blacksmith, John Thorogood, and his excellent wife Mary, but Time had touched them lightly in its flight. They both looked young and hale, and full of vigour. The only difference in them was a wrinkle or two at the corners of the eyes, and a few grey hairs mingling with the brown. Perhaps John was a little more corpulent than when he was a youth; but he could wield the fore-hammer as easily and powerfully as ever.
A cloud, however, had been gathering over their happy home during the past year. Molly—the sweet active girl who had never known a day’s illness from her childhood—had fallen into bad health. Her step had lost its spring, but her cheerful spirit was unsubdued.
“You’re better to-day, Molly darling?” asked the smith, in a tone which showed he was not sure of the answer.
“Yes, father, much better.” Molly did not use endearing terms, but the sweetness of her looks and voice rendered such needless.
She was pale and thin, and could not check the touch of sadness in her tones.
“Fred is sure to come, darling,” said Mrs Thorogood, stopping in her preparations for supper to smooth her daughter’s fair head.
“Oh yes, mother, I know that Fred is sure to come,” returned Molly, with a laugh and a little blush. “No fear of him. I was not thinking of him, but of Jim. It is the first Christmas we shall have spent without him. Dear Jim! I wonder what company he will have to spend it with him in the backwoods.”