out a suave white branch that the rabbits had gnawed quite bare in the hard winter. We came out of the woods into the full heavens. The northern sky was full of a gush of green light; in front, eclipsed Orion leaned over his bed, and the moon followed.
“When the northern lights are up,” said Emily, “I feel so strange—half eerie—they do fill you with awe, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said I, “they make you wonder, and look, and expect something.”
“What do you expect?” she said softly, and looked up, and saw me smiling, and she looked down again, biting her lips.
When we came to the parting of the roads, Emily begged them just to step into the mill—just for a moment—and Lettie consented.
The kitchen window was uncurtained, and the blind, as usual, was not drawn. We peeped in through the cords of budding honeysuckle. George and Alice were sitting at the table playing chess; the mother was mending a coat, and the father, as usual, was reading. Alice was talking quietly, and George was bent on the game. His arms lay on the table.
We made a noise at the door, and entered. George rose heavily, shook hands, and sat down again.
“Hullo, Lettie Beardsall, you are a stranger,” said Alice. “Are you so much engaged?”
“Ay—we don’t see much of her nowadays,” added the father in his jovial way.
“And isn’t she a toff, in her fine hat and furs and snowdrops. Look at her, George, you’ve never looked to see what a toff she is.”
