“The same to you, Master Bertie, and many of them. How be the Squire and Mrs. Chetwynd, and”—
“All well, thank you, John, but I can’t stop to go through the list now. I’ve to get to Appleton and back as soon as I can.”
“To Appleton! Laws now, Master Bertie, don’t ’ee do nothing of the kind. As sure as I’m alive there’s awful weather coming, and you and that little pony will never get back if you don’t mind.”
“Little pony indeed, John! Grey Plover is nearly fourteen hands—and do you suppose I care for a snow-storm?”
Old John points to the wall of gray cloud advancing steadily from the north-east.
“You just look yonder, Master. If that don’t mean the worst storm that we have known for many a long year, my name’s not John Salter.”
“Well, then, I must make all the more haste. If I don’t turn up by church-time to-morrow, you and old Moss will have to come and dig me out! Come along, Nettle!” and whistling to the terrier which has been exchanging salutations with the carrier’s old half-bred-colly, Bertie canters on.
“I don’t think I can find time to go home to luncheon,” says Mrs. Chetwynd casting an anxious eye round the half-decorated church, which presents a one-sided appearance, two columns being beautifully wreathed with glossy dark leaves and coral berries, shining laurel and graceful ivy, and the third as yet untouched.
“Mildred, when you come back, will you and Alice bring me some biscuits, and I can eat them in the vestry. The daylight now is so short, and I think to-day is even darker than usual. We shall have to work very hard to get finished in time.”