“He’ll miss his dinner—poor dear”—she thinks compassionately, but is consoled by the remembrance of an admirable pastry-cook’s shop in Appleton where the ginger-bread is sure to be extra plentiful on Christmas Eve of all days in the year.
“A real old-fashioned Christmas, Father calls it!” thinks Alice as she goes to the window and looks out at the whitened landscape, amongst which the leafless branches of the trees stand out like the limbs of blackened giants. The snow which has been falling at intervals for some days is not deep, but there is a heavy lowering appearance about the sky betokening that the worst is yet to come. The little birds, which Alice has been befriending ever since the winter set in, come hopping familiarly round the window, and one saucy robin gives a peck to the glass, as if to intimate that a fresh supply of crumbs would be acceptable.
Alice feels in her pocket for a bit of bread and finding some fragments hastily scatters them on the window-ledge, promising a better repast by-and-bye. Then she gives a last look at the half-dressed Christmas Tree, shakes her head over the insufficient candles, and murmuring that Bertie really is the dearest boy in the world, runs off to aid her mother in decorating the old village Church.
Meanwhile Grey Plover is swiftly and resolutely bearing his rider over the half-frozen snow in a manner worthy of his name. He is a handsome, strong-built pony, Squire Chetwynd’s gift to his son on his last birthday, and a right goodly pair they make, at least in the fond father’s eyes.
Perhaps if either Mr. Chetwynd, or his steady old coachman had been at home, Master Bertie would not have found it quite so easy to get his steed saddled for that ten miles’ ride, with the ground already covered with snow, and the heaviest fall that has been known for many a year, visibly impending.
There is a keen north-easter blowing, but Appleton lies to the west, so that for the present it only comes on the back of his neck, and Bertie turns up his collar to keep out the flakes which seem scattered about here and there in the air, and trots bravely along, whistling and talking by turns to his pony, and to a wiry little terrier, which is really Cousin Mildred’s property, but in common with most other animals, is deeply devoted to Bertie.
“Steady, lad, steady,” and Bertie checks his steed as they descend a somewhat steep incline, bordered by high hedges, of which the one to the north is half concealed by a bank of snow.
“I declare I never thought it could have grown so deep in the time,” mutters Bertie to himself. “I hope it won’t snow again before to-night, or I shall have some work to get home. What’s the time? Just two—all right—two hours more daylight at any rate—more if a fog doesn’t come on. Good-day, John, Merry Christmas to you,” as the village carrier, his cart heavily laden with Christmas boxes and parcels, passes him leading his old horse carefully up the hill.