IT was a bitter cold day in the end of the month of January. The morning had been a very unpleasant one—neither frost nor snow, a sort of compound of rain and sleet; but now the snow was falling fast, and the clear crystals were fast hiding every shrub and plant that had a place in the beautiful flower garden, in front of the drawing-room windows of Arundel Manor, while inside a roaring fire, that made the handsomely-furnished apartment look even more than usually snug and comfortable, was surrounded by a family party consisting of Mrs. St. Clair, the three children, and uncle Godfrey.
It was the “children’s hour,” and his niece was trying to coax a tale out of “dear uncle,” who did not seem much in the humor to comply with her request, when mamma looked up and said, “My dear, do not trouble your uncle so. I am sure, Godfrey, that Lydia must torment you; and if she does, we must send her to the nursery.”
Poor Lydia’s face fell at once. “I am sure I did not mean to tease uncle.”
“Never mind, my pet; I know I promised to tell you a story to-night, and was just thinking what it was to be, when my fit of musing sent memory back many a long day, and revealed a scene distant many a thousand miles. Now that I am fairly awake, I will show you the picture of my waking dream. So up you jump;” and Lydia, catching hold of his hand, was quickly seated on her uncle’s knee, her usual place at story time, and throwing her arms round his neck, exclaimed,—
“O, you dear old pet!”
“I heard,” began uncle Godfrey, “some boys, who shall be nameless, grumbling this morning at being kept inside, for fear of catching cold on such a raw day, and my thoughts instantly turned to a day similar to this, and how I then prayed to be under the shelter of some friendly roof; and I also thought how thankful every one ought to be who is able to sit at a warm fire, when it freezes hard, or when the snow is covering the earth by inches every hour.
“I dare say you think it fine fun to run over to the lodge and bring the letters from the post-boy; at least I did when as young as you are; but going for letters is not always the pleasantest thing imaginable, as I once nearly found out to my cost.
“If you are all so anxious to hear the contents of letters from your uncle Wilfred, you may fancy how eagerly he and I used to watch for the arrivals of the mails at Sydney, and be sure that one or both of us were certain to be at the office in Kiandra on the day it reached there, and with what delight we read and re-read the letter which never failed to make its appearance monthly to one or other of us.
“Our winter fall of snow generally began about the 12th of May, and from that date till the month of October it was a matter of no small difficulty to get our letters at the place where we lived, a long nine miles from Kiandra of a very mountainous track.
“186- was an extraordinary season. May passed, no snow—June the same, only heavy, I may say, nearly constant showers of rain. ‘A glorious year,’ the diggers called it. ‘Never such a season for work since the diggings broke out. Two months’ work at a time when there is never any water. O, what a wash-up there will be in November!’