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Title:      Mistress Pat (1935)
            A Novel of Silver Bush
Author:     Montgomery, L. M. (Lucy Maud), 1874-1942
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
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Edition:    1
Language:   English
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Date first posted:          December 2002
Date most recently updated: December 2002

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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Mistress Pat (1935)
            A Novel of Silver Bush
Author:     Montgomery, L. M. (Lucy Maud), 1874-1942





To

Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Webb

and

Their Family



Contents

The First Year

The Second Year

The Third Year

The Fourth Year

The Fifth Year

The Sixth Year

The Seventh Year

The Eighth Year

The Ninth Year

The Tenth Year

The Eleventh Year




The First Year


1


There were hundreds of trees, big and little, on the Silver Bush
farm and every tree was a personal friend of Pat's.  It was anguish
to her when one of them, even some gnarled old spruce in the woods
at the back, was cut down.  Nobody had ever been able to convince
Pat that it was not murder to cut a tree down . . . justifiable
homicide perhaps, since there had to be fires and lumber, but
homicide nevertheless.

And no tree was ever cut in the grove of white birches behind the
house.  THAT would have been sacrilege.  Occasionally one blew down
in an autumn storm and was mourned by Pat until time turned it into
a beautiful mossy log with ferns growing thickly all along it.

Everybody at Silver Bush loved the birch grove, though to none of
them did it mean what it meant to Pat.  For her it LIVED.  She not
only knew the birches but they knew her: the fern-sweet solitudes,
threaded with shadows, knew her: the wind in the boughs always made
her a glad salutation.  From the first beginnings of memory she had
played in it and wandered in it and dreamed in it.  She could not
remember the time it had not held her imagination in thrall and
dominated her life.  In childhood it had been peopled by the
leprechauns and green folk of Judy Plum's stories: and now that
those dear and lovely beliefs had drifted away from her like faint
and beckoning wraiths their old magic still haunted the silver
bush.  It could never be to Pat just the ordinary grove of white-
skinned trees and ferny hollows it was to other people.  But then,
Pat, so her family always said, was just a little different from
other people, too.  She had been different when she was a big-eyed
child . . . different when she was a brown, skinny little imp in
her early teens . . . and still different, now that she was twenty
and ought, so Judy Plum felt, to be having beaus.

There HAD been a boy or two in Pat's past but Judy considered them
mere experiments.  Pat, however, did not seem to want beaus, in
spite of Judy's sly hints.  All she really wanted, or seemed to
want, was to "run" Silver Bush and take care of mother . . . who
was a bit of an invalid . . . and see that as few changes as
possible came into existence there.  If she could have been granted
a fairy wish it would be that she might wave a wand and make
everything remain exactly the same for at least a hundred years.

She loved her home with a passion.  She was deeply loyal to it . . .
to its faults as well as its virtues . . . though she would never
admit it had any faults.  Every small thing about it gave her the
keenest joy.  If she went away for a visit she was homesick until
she could return to it.

"Silver Bush isn't her house . . . it's her religion," Uncle Brian
had once said teasingly.

Every room in it meant something . . . had some vital message for
her.  It had the look that houses wear when they have been loved
for years.  It was a house where nobody ever seemed to be in a
hurry . . . a house from which nobody ever went away without
feeling better in some way . . . a house in which there was always
laughter.  There had been so much laughter at Silver Bush that the
very walls seemed soaked in it.  It was a house where you felt
welcome the moment you stepped into it.  It took you in . . .
rested you.  The very chairs clamoured to be sat upon, so
hospitable was it.  And it was overrun by beautiful cats . . . fat,
fluffy fellows basking on the window sills or huddles of silk-soft
kittens sleeping on the warm sandstone slabs in the old family
graveyard beyond the orchard.  People came from all over the Island
to get a Silver Bush cat.  Pat hated to give them away but of
course something had to be done, since the kitten crop never
failed.

"Tom Baker was here for a kitten to-day," said Judy.

"'What brade is it?' sez he, solemn-like.  That fam'ly av Bakers
never did be having too much sinse.  'Oh, oh, no brade at all,' sez
I.  'Our cats do be just common or garden cats,' sez I.  'But we
give them a good home and talk to thim now and thin as inny self-
respicting cat likes to be talked to,' sez I, 'wid a bit av a
compliment thrown in once in a while.  And so they do their bist
for us in the matter av kittens as well as all ilse.  Sure and I do
be forgetting what a rat looks like,' sez I.  I was faling a bit
unwilling to give him the kitten.  They'll trate it well, I'm
having no manner av doubt, but they'll niver remimber to pass the
time av day wid it."

"Our cats own us anyway," said Cuddles lazily.  "Aunt Edith says
it's absurd the way we spoil them.  She says there are lots of poor
Christians don't have the life our cats have and she thinks it
awful that we let them sleep at the foot of our beds."

"Oh, oh, see there now, ye've sint Gintleman Tom off mad," said
Judy reprovingly.  "Cats always do be knowing what ye're saying av
thim.  And Gintleman Tom's that sensitive."

Cuddles idly watched Gentleman Tom . . . Judy's lank, black cat who
was so old that he had forgotten to die, Sid said . . . stalk
indignantly off through the ferns of the path.  She and Pat and
Judy were spending the hours of the late summer afternoon in the
silver bush.  They had fallen into the habit of doing their odd
jobs there, where bird music occasionally dripped through the leafy
silence or a squirrel chattered or wood winds wove their murmurous
spells.  Pat went there to write her letters and Cuddles studied
her lessons.  Often mother brought her knitting and sewing.  It was
a lovely place to work in . . . though Cuddles seldom worked while
there.  She generally left that to Pat and Judy.  The latter was
sitting on a mossy log, stoning cherries for preserving and the
former was making new apple-green curtains for the dining room.
Cuddles, observing that it was a poor place that couldn't support
one lady, put her hands on the grass behind her and leaned back on
them, looking up at the opal-hued sky between the tree-tops.

"Bold-and-Bad won't leave us," she said.  "HE isn't so touchy."

"Oh, oh, ye cudn't be hurting that cat's falings, by rason that he
hasn't got inny," said Judy, with a somewhat scornful glance at the
big grey cat sitting on the log by Pat, blinking eyes of pale jade
with a black line down their centre at a dog with a sleek, golden-
brown back who was happily gnawing a rather malodorous bone behind
the log, occasionally pausing to gaze up in Pat's face adoringly
and wistfully.  Then Pat would stroke his head and pull his pointed
ears, whereat Bold-and-Bad would look more remote than ever.  Bold-
and-Bad always considered "the dog McGinty," as Judy called him, an
interloper.  Hilary Gordon had left him with Pat nearly two years
ago, when he went away to college in Toronto.  At first McGinty had
nearly broken his heart but he knew Pat loved him and eventually he
perked up a bit and gave Bold-and-Bad as good as he sent.  An armed
truce existed between them, for Bold-and-Bad had not forgotten what
Pat did to him the day he scratched McGinty's nose.  McGinty would
always have been friends but Bold-and-Bad was simply not having
any.

"Oh, oh, what wid all these cherries to be stoned afore supper I do
be wishing we had a ghost like they had at Castle McDermott in the
ould days," said Judy, with an exaggerated sigh.  "That was a ghost
now . . . a rale useful, industrious cratur.  The odd jobs he'd do
ye wudn't be belaving . . . stirring the porridge and peeling the
pittaties and scouring the brasses . . . he wasn't above turning
his hand to innything.  Sorra the day the ould lord lift a bit av
money on the kitchen dresser for him, saying the labourer was
worthy av his hire.  He niver come again . . . his falings having
been hurt be the same.  Oh, oh, it cost the McDermott the kape av
another maid.  Ye niver know where ye are whin ye're dealing wid
the craturs.  Sure and that's the disadvantage av ghosts.  Some wud
have been offinded if they hadn't been thanked.  But a ghost like
that wud be rale handy once in a while at Silver Bush, wudn't it
now, Cuddles, darlint?"

Luckily Judy did not see Pat and Cuddles exchanging smiles.  They
had begun to share with each other their amused delight in Judy's
stories, which had replaced the credulity of early childhood.
There had been a time when both Pat and Cuddles would have believed
implicity in the industrious McDermott ghost.

"Judy, if that yarn is a gentle hint for me to get busy and help
you stone those cherries I'm not going to take it," said Cuddles
with a grin.  "I hate sewing and preserving.  Pat is the domestic
type . . . I'm not.  When I'm here I just like to squat on the
grass and listen to you talking.  I've got my blue dress on and
cherry juice stains.  Besides, I've got pains in my stomach . . .
I really have . . . every now and then."

"If ye WILL ate liddle grane apples ye must put up wid pains in yer
stomach," said Judy, as remorselessly as cause and effect.  "Though
whin I was a girleen it wasn't thought rale good manners to talk av
yer insides so plain, Cuddles."

"You keep on calling me Cuddles," said Cuddles sulkily.  "I've
asked you all to stop it and not one of you will.  Away from home
I'm Rae . . . I like that, but here at Silver Bush everybody
'Cuddles' me.  It's so . . . so babyish . . . now that I'm
thirteen."

"So it is, Cuddles dear," agreed Judy.  "But I'm too old to be
larning new names.  I'm guessing ye'll always be Cuddles to me.
And such a tommyshaw as we had finding a name for ye at that!  Do
ye be minding, Pat?  And how upset ye was bekase I wint hunting in
the parsley bed for a new baby the night Cuddles was born?  Oh, oh,
that was the tarrible night at Silver Bush!  We niver thought yer
mother wud live through it, Patsy dear.  To think it do be thirteen
years ago!"

"I remember how big and red the moon was that night, rising over
the Hill of the Mist," said Pat dreamily.  "Oh, Judy, did you know
that the lightning struck the middle lombardy on the Hill of the
Mist last week?  It killed it and it has to be cut down.  I don't
see how I can stand it.  I've always loved those three trees so.
They've been there ever since I can remember.  Now, McGinty, don't
do it.  I know it's a temptation when his tail hangs down so . . .
that's right, Bold-and-Bad, tuck it up.  And while I think about
it, Bold-and-Bad, you needn't . . . you really needn't . . . bring
any more mice to my bedside in the early morning hours, I'll take
your word for it that you caught them."

"The yells av him whin he's carrying one upstairs!" said Judy.
"It'd break his heart if he cudn't be showing it off to somebody."

"I thought you said a moment ago he hadn't any feelings," giggled
Cuddles.

Judy ignored her and turned to Pat.

"Will we be having a cherry pudding to-morrow, Patsy?"

"Yes, I think so.  Oh, do you remember how Joe loved cherry
puddings?"

"Oh, oh, there's not much I do be forgetting about Joe, Patsy dear.
Was it Shanghai his last letter was from?  I'm not belaving thim
yellow Chinese know innything about making cherry puddings.  Or
plum puddings ather.  We'll have one av thim for Christmas when Joe
will be home."

"I wonder if he really will," sighed Pat.  "He has never been home
for Christmas since he went away.  He's always planned to come but
something always prevents."

"Trix Binnie says Joe has had his nose tattooed and that's the
reason he doesn't come home," said Cuddles.  "She says Captain Dave
Binnie saw him last year in Buenos Ayres and didn't know him, he
looked so awful.  Do you think there's any truth in it?"

"Not if a Binnie do be telling it," said Judy contemptuously.
"Don't be worrying, Cuddles."

"Oh, I'm not.  I rather hoped it was.  It would be so interesting.
If he IS tattooed I'm going to get him to do me when he comes
home."

There was simply nothing to be said to this.  Judy turned again to
Pat.

"He's to be captain by Christmas, didn't he say?  Oh, oh, but that
b'y has got on!  He'll be a year younger than yer Uncle Horace was
whin he got his ship.  I do be minding the time HE come home that
summer and brought his monkey wid him."

"A monkey?"

"I'm telling ye.  The baste took possession.  Yer liddle
grandmother was nearly out av her wits.  And poor ould Jim Appleby
. . . he was niver known to be sober . . . just a bit less drunk
than common was all ye cud be saying at the bist av times . . . he
come down to Silver Bush to buy some pigs and yer Uncle Horace's
monkey was skipping along the top av the pig-pen fince quite
careless-like.  Yer grandfather said ould Jim turned white . . .
all but his nose . . . and he sez, sez he, 'I've got 'em!  Ma
always said I'd git 'em and I have.  But I'll niver be touching a
drop again.'  He kipt his word for two months but he was that cross
and cantankerous his family were rale glad whin he forgot about the
monkey.  Mrs. Jim did be saying she wished Horace Gardiner wud kape
his minagerie widin bounds.  If Jim comes it's a rale reunion we'll
have, Patsy."

"Yes.  Winnie and Frank will be over and we'll all be together
again.  We must plan it all out some of these days.  I do love
planning things."

"Aunt Edith says it's no use making plans because something always
happens to upset them," said Cuddles gloomily.

"Niver ye be belaving it, me jewel.  And innyhow what if they do be
upset?  Ye've had the fun av planning.  Don't be letting yer Aunt
Edith make a . . . a . . . what did Siddy be calling it now?"

"A pessimist."

"Oh, oh, doesn't that sound just like her!  Innyway, don't be
letting her make ye that.  Aven if Joe doesn't get home, the
darlint, there'll be Winnie and Frank and yer Aunt Hazel's liddle
gang, and the turkeys we'll be having for dinner are roosting on
the fence behind the church barn this blessed minute growing as
hard as they kin.  And Pat there is saving up all the resates
and menoos in the magazines.  Oh, oh, there'll be the great
preparations I'm thinking and me fine Edith won't be spiling it wid
her sighs and sorrows.  She do be having a grudge at life, that
one.  Patsy, do ye be minding the time ye were dancing naked here
by the light av the moon and me lady Edith nabbed ye?"

"Dancing naked?  And you won't even let me wear shorts round home,"
moaned Cuddles.

"And they broke my heart by sending me to Coventry," went on Pat,
as if Cuddles had not spoken.  "They never knew how cruel they
were.  And the night you came home, Judy, and I smelt the ham
frying!"

"Sure, minny's the good liddle bite we've had in the ould days,
Patsy.  But there's as minny ahead as behind I'm hoping.  And
maybe, Miss Cuddles . . . as I shud be after calling Rachel . . .
if ye won't be stoning inny cherries will ye be above making some
blueberry muffins for supper?  Patsy is wanting to finish her
hemstitching and Siddy's that fond av thim."

"I'll do that," agreed Cuddles.  "I like blueberry things.  Oh, and
I'm going up to the Bay Shore next week to pick blueberries with
Winnie.  She says I can sleep out in a tent right down by the
shore.  I want to sleep out some night here in Silver Bush.  We
could have a hammock swung between those two big trees there.  It
would be heavenly.  Judy, did Uncle Tom ever have any love affairs
when he was young?"

"Oh, oh, the way ye do be jumping from one thing to another!"
protested Judy.  "No doubt he had his fun girling like the rest av
the b'ys.  I'm not knowing why it niver turned serious.  What put
him into yer head?"

"He's asked me to mail a letter for him at Silverbridge three times
this summer.  He said they were too nosy at the North Glen post
office.  It was addressed to a lady."

Pat and Judy exchanged knowing glances.  Judy repressed her
excitement and spoke with careful carelessness.

"Did ye be noticing the name av the lady, Cuddles darlint?"

"Oh, Mrs. Something-or-other," said Cuddles with a yawn.  "I forget
the name.  Uncle Tom looked so red and sheepish when he asked me I
just wondered what he was up to."

"Yer Uncle Tom must be close on sixty," reflected Judy.  "It do be
the time some min take a second silly spell about the wimmen.  But
wid Edith to kape him straight he can't go far.  Sure and I do be
minding how crazy he was to go to the Klondike whin the big gold
rush was on . . . nather to hold nor bind.  But me lady Edith
nipped that in the bud and I'm thinking he's niver ralely forgiven
her for it.  Oh, oh, we've all had our bits av drames that niver
come true.  If I cud just have a run over to the Ould Country now
and see if Castle McDermott is as grand as it used to be.  But
it'll niver come to pass."

"'Each mortal has his Carcassonne,'" quoted Pat dreamily, recalling
a poem Hilary Gordon had marked for her once.

But Cuddles, always the more practical, said coolly, "And why can't
it, Judy?  You could take a couple of months off any summer, now
that I'm old enough to help Pat.  The fare second class wouldn't be
too much and you could see all your relatives there and have a
gorgeous time."

Judy blinked as if somebody had struck her.  "Oh, oh, Cuddles
darlint, it sounds rale reasonable whin ye put it that way.  It's a
wonder I niver thought av it.  But I'm not so young as I once was
. . . I do be getting a bit ould for gallivanting round."

"You're not too old, Judy.  Just you go next summer.  All you have
to do is to make up your mind."

"Oh, oh, make up yer mind, sez she.  That takes a bit av doing,
Cuddles dear . . . as well as a bit av thinking av."

"Don't think about it . . . just go," said Cuddles, rolling over on
her stomach and pulling McGinty's ears.  "If you think too much
about it you'll never do it."

"Oh, oh, whin I was thirteen I was be way av being nearly as wise
as you are.  I've larned foolishness since," said Judy sarcastically.
"It's not running off to Ireland I'll be as if it was a jaunt to
Silverbridge.  And me frinds there have grown ould . . . I doubt if
they'd know me, grey as an owl that I am.  There do be a new
McDermott at the castle, I'm ixpicting, talking rale English.  The
ould lord had a brogue so thick ye cud stir it."

"It's perfectly thrilling to think you ever lived in a castle, Judy
. . . and waited on a lord.  It's even more exciting than
remembering that mother's fourth cousin married into the English
nobility.  I wonder if we'll ever see her.  Pat, let's you and I go
over some day and call on our titled friend."

"I'm afraid she's not even aware of our existence," grinned Pat.
"A fourth cousin is pretty far removed and she went to England to
live with her aunt when she was a little girl.  Mother saw her
once, though."

"Oh, oh, that she did," said Judy.  "She visited at the Bay Shore
whin she was tin and they all come over here one day to play wid
the young fry here.  They had a day av it.  She's a barrownite's
wife now . . . Sir Charles Gresham . . . and his aunt do be married
to an earl."

"Is he a belted earl?" demanded Cuddles.  "A belted earl sounds so
much more earlish than an unbelted one."

"Oh, oh, he's iverything an earl shud be.  I do be forgetting what
he was earl of but it was a rale aristocratic name.  It was all in
the papers whin yer cousin was married.  Lady Gresham wasn't young
but she made a good market be waiting.  Oh, oh, niver shall I be
forgetting the aunts at the Bay Shore whin the news come.  They
cudn't be inny prouder than they always were, so they got rale
humble.  'It's nothing to us av coorse,' sez yer Great-aunt
Frances.  'She's a great leddy now and she wudn't be acknowledging
inny kin to common people like us.'  Oh, oh, to be hearing Frances
Selby calling herself common people!"

"Trix Binnie says she doesn't believe that Lady Gresham is any
relation at all to us," said Cuddles, picking up a yellow kitten,
with a face like a golden pansy, that came skittering through the
ferns, and tucking it under her chin.

"She wudn't!  But yer fourth cousin she is and it was her uncle the
Bishop they did be blaming for staling the silver at the Bay Shore
the night he slipt there."

"Stealing the silver, Judy?"  Pat had never heard of this though
Judy had been recounting her family legends to her all her life.

"I'm telling ye.  Ye know that illigant silver hair-brush and comb
in the spare room at the Bay Shore, to say nothing av the liddle
looking glass and the two scent bottles.  That proud av it they
was.  They niver did be putting it out for common people but a
Bishop was a Bishop and whin he wint up to bed there it was all
spread out gorgeous-like on the bury top.  Oh, oh, but it wasn't
there the nixt morning, though.  Yer Great-great-Aunt Hannah was on
the hoof thin . . . it was long afore she got bed-rid . . . and she
was just about wild.  She just set down and wrote and asked the
Bishop what he'd done wid it.  Back he wrote, 'I am poor but
honest.  The silver is in the box av blankets.  It was too
luxurious for a humble praste like mesilf to use and I was afraid
some av me medicine might fall on it.'  Oh, oh, the silver was on
top av the blankets all right enough and yer poor Great-great-Aunt
was niver the same agin, after as much as accusing the Bishop av
staling it.  Patsy darlint, spaking av letters, was there inny news
in the one ye got from Jingle this morning if a body may ask?"

"A very special bit of news," said Pat.  "I saved it to tell you
this afternoon when we'd be out here.  Hilary sent in the design
for a window to some big competition . . . and it won the prize.
Against a hundred and sixty competitors."

"It's the cliver lad Jingle is . . . and it'll be the lucky girl
that do be getting him."

Pat ignored this.  She didn't want Hilary Gordon for anything but a
friend but she did not exactly warm to the idea of that "lucky
girl" whoever she was.

"Hilary always had a liking for windows.  Whenever he saw one that
stood out from the ordinary run he went into raptures over it.
That little dormer one in old Mary McClenahan's house . . . Judy,
do you remember the time you sent us to her to witch McGinty back?"

"And she did, didn't she now?"

"She knew where he was to be found anyhow," Pat sighed.  "Judy,
life was really more fun when I believed she was a witch."

"I'm telling ye."  Judy nodded her clipped grey head mysteriously.
"The less ye do be belaving the colder life do be.  This bush now
. . . it was nicer whin it was packed full av fairies, wasn't it?"

"Yes . . . in a way.  But their magic still hangs round it, though
the fairies are gone."

"Oh, oh, ye belaved in thim once, that's why.  If ye don't belave
in fairies they can't exist.  That do be why grown folks can niver
be seeing thim," said Judy sagely.  "It's pitying the children I am
that niver have the chanct to belave in fairies.  They'll be the
poorer all their lives bekase av it."

"I remember one story you told me . . . of the little girl who was
playing in a bush like this and was lured away to fairyland by
exquisite music.  I used to tiptoe through here in the 'dim' and
listen for it.  But I don't think I really wanted to hear it . . .
I was afraid that if I went to fairyland I'd never come back.  And
no fairy country could ever satisfy me after Silver Bush."

The look came into Pat's brook-brown eyes which always made people
feel she was remembering something very lovely.  Pat was not the
beauty of the Gardiner family but there was magic in her face when
that look came.  She rose and folded up her sewing and went down to
the house, followed by McGinty.  The robins were beginning to
whistle and the clouds over the bush were turning to a faint rose.
The ferns and long grasses of the path were gold in the light of
the westering sun.  Away to the right long shadows were creeping
over the hill pasture.  And down beyond the low fields was the blue
mist that was an August sea.

Sid was in the yard trying to make an obstinate calf drink.
Cuddles' two pet white ducks were lying by the well.  They were to
be offered up for Thanksgiving dinner but Judy had not dared to
hint this to Cuddles as yet.  Father was mowing the early oats.
Mother, her nap over, was down in the garden among the velvety
Sweet Williams.  A squirrel was running saucily over the kitchen
roof.  It was going to be a dear quiet evening, such as she loved
best, with every one and everything at Silver Bush happy.  Pat
loved to see things and people happy; and she herself had the gift,
than which there is none more enviable, of finding great pleasure
in little things.  The bats would be coming out at the rising of
the moon and the great, green spaciousness of the farm would be all
around the house that always seemed to her more a person than a
house.

"Pat's just as crazy as ever about Silver Bush, isn't she?" said
Cuddles.  "I think she'd die if she had to leave it.  I don't
believe she'll ever get married, Judy, just because of that.  I
love Silver Bush, too, but I don't want to live here ALL my life.
I want to go away . . . and have adventures . . . and see the
world."

"Sure and it wudn't do if iverybody wanted to stay at home," agreed
Judy.  "But Patsy has always had Silver Bush in her heart . . .
right at the very core av it.  Whin she was no more than five she
was asking yer mother one fine day where God was.  And yer mother
sez gentle-like, 'He is iverywhere, Patsy.'  'Iverywhere?' sez Pat,
her eyes that pitiful.  'Hasn't He got inny home?  Oh, mother, I'm
so sorry for Him.'  Did ye iver hear av such a thing as being sorry
for God!  Well, that was me liddle Pat.  Cuddles dear" . . . Judy
lowered her voice like a conspirator, although Pat was well out of
sight and hearing . . . "Jem Robinson has been hanging round a bit,
hasn't he now?  He's a rale nice lad and only one year more to go
at college.  Do ye be thinking Pat has inny notion av him?"

"I'm sure she hasn't, Judy.  Though she says the only thing she has
against him is that his face needs side-whiskers and he was born a
generation too late.  I heard her say that to Sid.  What did she
mean, Judy?"

"The Good Man Above do alone be knowing," groaned Judy.  "Sure,
Cuddles darling, it's all right to be a bit particular-like.  The
Silver Bush girls have niver been like the Binnies.  'Olive has a
beau for ivery night in the wake,' sez Mrs. Binnie to me onct,
boastful-like.  'So she do be for going in for quantity afore
quality,' sez I.  But what if ye're too particular?  I'm asking
ye."

"I'm not old enough to have beaus yet," said Cuddles, "but just you
wait till I am.  It must be thrilling, Judy, to have some one tell
you he loves you."

"Ould Tom Drinkwine did be telling me that onct upon a time but
niver a thrill did I be faling," said Judy reflectively.


2


"All the months are friends of mine but apple month is the
dearest," chanted Pat.

It was October at Silver Bush and she and Cuddles and Judy picked
apples in the New Part of the orchard every afternoon . . . which
wasn't so very new now, since it was all of twenty years old.  But
the Old Part was very much older and the apples in it were mostly
sweet and fed to the pigs.  Sometimes Long Alec Gardiner thought it
would be far better to cut it down and get some real good out of
the land but Pat couldn't be made to hear reason about it.  She
loved the Old Part far better than the New.  It had been planted by
Great-grandfather Gardiner and was shadowy and mysterious, with as
many old spruce trees as apple trees in it, and one special corner
where generations of beloved cats and kittens had been buried.
Besides, as Pat pointed out, if you cleared away the Old Part it
would leave the graveyard open to all the world, since the Old Part
surrounded it on three sides.  This argument had weight with Long
Alec.  He was proud, in his way, of the old family burial plot,
where nobody was ever buried now but where so many greats and
grands of every degree slept . . . for the Gardiners of Silver Bush
came of old P.E. Island pioneer stock.  So the Old Part was spared
and in spring it was as beautiful as the New Part, when the gnarled
trees were young and bridal again for a brief space in the sweet
spring days and the cool spring nights.

It was such a mellow and dreamy afternoon and Silver Bush seemed
mellow and dreamy, too.  Pat thought the old farm had a mood for
every day in the year and every hour in the day.  Now it would be
gay . . . now melancholy . . . now friendly . . . now austere . . .
now grey . . . now golden.  To-day it was golden.  The Hill of the
Mist had wrapped a scarf of blue haze about its brown shoulders and
was mysteriously lovely still, in spite of the missing Lombardy.
Behind it a great castle of white cloud, with mauve shadows,
towered up.  There had been a delicate, ghostly rain the night
before and the scent of the little hollow in the graveyard, full of
frosted ferns, was distilled on the air.  How green the pastures
were for autumn!  The kitchen yard was full of the pale gold of
aspens and the turkey house was almost lost in a blaze of crimson
sumacs.  The white birches which some forgotten bride had planted
along the Whispering Lane, that led from Silver Bush to Swallowfield,
were amber, and the huge maple over the well was a flame.  When
Pat paused every few minutes just to look at it she whispered,


     "'The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
       Of bugles going by.'"


"What might ye be whispering to yersilf, Patsy?  Sure and ye might
be telling us if it's inny joke.  It seems to be delighting ye."

Pat lifted eyebrows like little slender wings.

"It was just a bit of poetry, Judy, and you don't care much for
poetry."

"Oh, oh, po'try do be all right in its place but it won't be kaping
the apples if there's a hard frost some av these nights.  We're a
bit behind wid the picking as it is.  And more work than iver to
look forward to, now that yer dad has bought the ould Adams place
for pasture and going into the live stock business."

"But he's going to have a hired man to help him, Judy."

"Oh, oh, and who will be looking after the hired man I'm asking ye.
He'll be nading a bite to ate, I'm thinking, and mebbe a bit av
washing and minding done.  Not that I'm complaining av the work,
mind ye.  But ye can niver tell about an outsider.  It's been minny
a long day since we had inny av the brade at Silver Bush and it'll
be a bit av a change, as ye say yersilf."

"I don't mind changes that mean things COMING as much as changes
that means things GOING," said Pat, pausing to aim a wormy apple at
two kittens who were chasing each other up the tree trunks.  "And
I'm so glad dad has bought the old Adams place.  The little stone
bridge Hilary and I built over Jordan and the Haunted Spring will
belong to us now . . . and Happiness."

"Oh, oh, to think av buying happiness now!" chuckled Judy.  "I
wasn't after thinking it cud be done, Patsy."

"Judy, don't you remember that Hilary and I called the little hill
by the Haunted Spring Happiness?  We used to have such lovely times
there."

"Oh, I'm minding.  It was just me liddle joke, Patsy dear.  Sure
and it tickled me ribs to think av inny one being able to buy
happiness.  Oh, oh, there do be a few things God kapes to Himsilf
and that do be one av thim.  Though I did be knowing a man in ould
Ireland that tried to buy off Death."

"He couldn't do that, Judy," sighed Pat, recalling with a shiver
the dark day when Bets, the lovely and beloved friend of her
childhood, had died and left a blank in her life that had never
been filled.

"But he DID.  And thin, whin he wanted death and prayed for him
Death wudn't come.  'No, no,' sez Death, 'a bargain is a bargain.'
But this hired man now . . . where is he going to slape?  That's
been bothering me a bit.  Wud yer dad be wanting me to give up me
snug kitchen chamber for him and moving somewhere up the front
stairs?"

Judy couldn't keep the anxiety out of her voice.  Pat shook her
slim brown hands, that talked quite as eloquently as her lips, at
Judy reassuringly.

"No, indeed, Judy.  Dad knows that kitchen chamber is your kingdom.
He's going to fit up that nice little loft over the granary for
him.  Put a stove and a bed and a bit of furniture in it and it
will be very comfortable.  He can spend his evenings there when
he's home, don't you think?  What's been worrying ME, Judy, was
that he might want to hang around the kitchen and spoil our jolly
evenings."

"Oh, oh, we'll manage."  Judy was suddenly in good cheer.  She
would have surrendered her kitchen chamber without a word of
protest had Long Alec so decreed but the thought had lain heavy on
her heart.  She had slept so cosily in that chamber for over forty
years.  "All I'm hoping is that yer dad won't be hiring Sim
Ledbury.  He's been after the place I hear."

"Oh, surely dad wouldn't want a Ledbury round," said Cuddles.

"Ye can't pick and choose, Cuddles dear.  That do be the trouble.
Hired hilp is be way av being scarce and yer dad must be having a
man that understands cows.  Sim do be thinking he does.  But a
Ledbury wid the freedom av me kitchen will be a hard pill to
swallow and him wid a face like a tombstone and born hating cats.
Gintleman Tom took just the one look at him the day he was here and
thin made himsilf scarce.  If we can be getting a man who'll be
good company for the cats ye'll niver hear a word av complaint from
me about him, as long as he's willing to do a bit av work for his
wages.  Yer dad has got his name up for niver being put out at
innything so he cud be imposed upon something shameful.  But we'll
all be seeing what we'll see and now we've finished wid this tree
I'm going in to bake me damsons."

"I'm going to stay out till the sunshine fails me.  I think, Judy,
when I grow VERY old I'll just sit and bask in the sunshine all the
time . . . I love it so.  Cuddles, what about a run back to the
Secret Field before sunset?"

Cuddles shook a golden-brown head.

"I'd love to go but you know I twisted my foot this morning and it
hurts me yet.  I'm going over to sit on Weeping Willy's slab in the
graveyard for a while and just dream.  I feel shimmery to-day . . .
as if I was made of sunbeams."

When Cuddles said things like that Pat had a vague feeling that
Cuddles was clever and ought to be educated if it could be managed.
But it had to be admitted that so far Cuddles seemed to share the
family indifference to education.  She went in unashamedly for "a
good time" and pounced on life like a cat on a mouse.

Pat slipped away for one of her dear pilgrimages to the Secret
Field . . . that little tree-encircled spot at the very back of the
farm, which she and Sid had discovered so long ago and which she,
at least, had loved ever since.  Almost every Sunday evening, when
they walked over the farm, talking and planning . . . for Sid was
developing into an enthusiastic farmer . . . they ended up with the
Secret Field, which was always in grass and always bore a wonderful
crop of wild strawberries.  Sid had promised her he would never
plough it up.  It was really too small to be worthwhile cultivating
anyhow.  And if it were ploughed up there might never be any more
of Judy's famous wild strawberry shortcakes or those still more
delicious things Pat made and which she called strawberry cream
pies.

It was nice to go there with Sid but it was even nicer to go alone.
There was nothing then to come between her and the silent, rapt
communion she seemed to hold with it.  It was the loneliest and
loveliest spot on the farm.  Its very silence was friendly and
seemed to come out of the woods around it like a real presence.  No
wind ever blew there and rain and snow fell lightly.  In summer it
was a pool of sunlight, in winter a pool of frost . . . now in
autumn a pool of colour.  Musky, spicy shadows seemed to hover
around its grey old fences.  Pat always felt that the field knew it
was beautiful and was happy in its knowledge.  She lingered in it
until the sun set and then went slowly back home, savouring every
moment of the gathering dusk.  What a lovely phrase "gathering
dusk" was . . . almost as lovely as Judy's "dim", though the latter
had a certain eerie quality that always gave Pat a rapture.

At the top of the hill field she paused, as always, to gloat over
Silver Bush.  The light shone out from the door and windows of the
kitchen where Judy would be preparing supper, with the cats
watching for a "liddle bite" and McGinty cocking a pointed ear for
Pat's footstep.  Would it be as nice when that unknown creature,
the all-too-necessary hired man, would be hanging round, waiting
for his supper?  Of course it wouldn't.  He would be a stranger and
an alien.  Pat fiercely resented the thought of him.

They would have supper by lamplight now.  For a while she always
hated to have to light the lamp for supper . . . it meant that the
wind had blown the summer away and that winter nights were closing
in.  Then she liked it . . . it was so cosy and companionable and
Silver Bushish, with Judy's "dim" looking in through the crimson
vines around the window.

The colour of home on an autumn dusk was an exquisite thing.  The
trees all around it seemed to love it.  The house belonged to them
and to the garden and the green hill and the orchard and they to
it.  You couldn't separate them, Pat felt.  She always wondered how
any one could live in a house where there were no trees.  It seemed
an indecency, like a too naked body.  Trees . . . to veil and
caress and beshadow . . . trees to warn you back and beckon you on.
Lombardies for statelines . . . birches for maiden grace . . .
maples for friendliness . . . spruce and fir for mystery . . .
poplars to whisper secrets.  Only they never really did.  You
thought you understood as long as you listened . . . but when you
left them you realized they had just been laughing at you . . .
thin, rustling, silky laughter.  All the trees kept some secret.
Who knew but that all those white birches, which stood so primly
all day, when night and moonlight came, might step daintily out of
the earth and pirouette over the meadows, while the young spruces
around the Mince Pie field danced a saraband?  Laughing at her
fancy, Pat ran into the light and good cheer of Judy's white-washed
kitchen with life singing in her heart.


3


"Tillytuck!  Did ye iver be hearing the like av that for a name?"
said Judy, quite flabbergasted for once.  "Niver have I heard such
a name on the Island before."

"He's been working on the south shore for years but he really
belongs to Nova Scotia, dad says," said Cuddles.

"Oh, oh, that ixplains it.  Minny a quare name I've known coming
out av Novy Scoshy.  And what will we be after calling him?  If
he's a young chap we can be calling him be his given name if he do
be having one but if he's a bit oldish it'll have to be Mr.
Tillytuck, since hired hilp is getting so uppish these days, and
it'll be the death av me if I do have to be saying 'Mr. Tillytuck'
ivery time I open me mouth.  MISTER Tillytuck!"

Judy savoured the absurdity of it.

"He's quite old, dad says.  Over fifty," remarked Cuddles.

"And dad says, too, that he's a bit peculiar."

"Peculiar, is it, thin?  Oh, oh, people do be saying that I'm a bit
that way mesilf, so there'll be a pair av us.  Is he peculiar in
being worth his salt in the way av work?  That do be the question."

"He comes well recommended and dad was almost in despair of getting
any one half suitable."

"And is MISTER Tillytuck married, I'm asking.  MISTRESS Tillytuck!
Oh, oh."

"Dad didn't say.  But he's to be here to-morrow so we'll find out
all about him.  Judy, what HAVE you got in that pot?"

"A bit av soup lift over from dinner.  I did be thinking we'd like
a liddle sup av it be bed-time.  And lave a drop in the pot for
Siddy.  He's gone gallivanting and it's a cold night and mebbe a
long drive home."

There was no trace of disdain in Judy's "gallivanting."  Judy
thought gallivanting one of the lawful delights of youth.

It was a wild wet November evening, with an occasional vicious
swish of rain on the windows.  But the fire glowed brightly:
Gentleman Tom was curled up on his own prescriptive chair and
McGinty slumbered on the rug; Bold-and-Bad on one side of the
stove, and Squedunk, a half-grown, striped cat on his promotion, on
the other, kept up a lovely chorus of purrs: and Cuddles had a
cherry-red dress on that brought out the young sheen of her hair.
Cuddles had such lovely hair, Pat thought proudly.  Nothing so
pallid and washed out as gold, like Dot Robinson's . . . no, a warm
golden brown.

Judy's soup had a very tempting aroma.  Judy was past-mistress of
the art of soup-making.  Long Alec always said all she had to do
was wave her hand over the pot.  Mother was mending by the table.
Mother had never been strong since her operation and Pat, who
watched her with a jealous love, thought she ought to be resting.
But mother always liked to do the mending.

"It will be the last thing I'll give up, Pat.  Most women don't
like mending.  I always did.  The little worn garments . . . when
you were children . . . they seemed so much a part of you.  And now
your bits of silk things.  It doesn't hurt me really.  I like to
think I'm a little use still."

"Mother!  Don't you dare say anything like that again!  You're the
very heart and soul of Silver Bush . . . you know you are.  We
couldn't do without you for a day."

Mother smiled . . . that little slow, sweet, mysterious smile of
mother's . . . the smile of a woman very wise and very loving.  But
then everything about mother was wise and loving.  When shrieks of
laughter rang out she looked as if she were laughing, too, though
mother never did laugh . . . not really.

"Let's have a jolly evening," Cuddles had said.  "If this Tillytuck
creature doesn't like staying in the granary loft in the evenings
this may be the last evening we'll have the kitchen to ourselves,
so let's make the most of it.  Tell us some stories, Judy . . . and
I'll roast some clove apples."

"'Pile high the logs, the wind blows chill,'" quoted Pat.  "At
least put a few more sticks in the stove.  That doesn't sound half
as romantic as piling high the logs, does it?"

"I'm thinking it might be more comfortable if it isn't be way av
being romantic," said Judy, sitting down to her knitting in a
corner whence she could give the soup pot an occasional magic stir.
"They did be piling the logs in Castle McDermott minny the time and
we'd have our faces frying and the backs av us frazing.  Oh, oh,
give me the modern ways ivery time."

"It seems funny to think of fires in heaven," ruminated Pat,
curling up Turk-fashion on the old hooked rug before the stove,
with its pattern of three rather threadbare black cats.  "But I
want a fire there once in a while . . . and a nice howly, windy
night like this to point the contrast.  And now for your ghost
story, Judy."

"I'm clane run out av ghosts," complained Judy . . . who had been
saying the same thing for years.  But she always produced or
invented a new one, telling it with such verisimilitude of detail
that even Pat and Cuddles were . . . sometimes . . . convinced.
You could no longer believe in fairies of course, but the world
hadn't quite given up all faith in ghosts.  "Howsiver, whin I come
to think av it, I may niver have told ye av the night me own great-
uncle saw the Ould Ould McDermott . . . the grandfather of the Ould
McDermott av me own time . . . a-sitting on his own grave and
talking away to himsilf, angry-like.  Did I now?"

"No . . . no . . . go on," said Cuddles eagerly.

But the ghost story of the Ould Ould McDermott was fated never to
be told for at that moment there came a resounding treble knock
upon the kitchen door.  Before one of the paralysed trio could stir
the door was opened and Tillytuck walked into the room . . . and,
though nobody just then realised it, into the life and heart of
Silver Bush.  They knew he was Tillytuck because he could be nobody
else in the world.

Tillytuck came in and shut the door behind him but not before a
lank, smooth-haired black dog had slipped in beside him.  McGinty
sat up and looked at him and the strange dog sat down and looked at
McGinty.  But the Silver Bush trio had no eyes just then for
anybody but Tillytuck.  They stared at him as if hypnotised.

Tillytuck was short and almost as broad as he was long.  His red
face was almost square, made squarer, if possible, by a pair of
old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers of a faded ginger hue.  His
mouth was nothing but a wide slit and his nose the merest round
button of a nose.  His hair could not be seen for it was concealed
under a mangy old fur cap.  His body was encased in a faded
overcoat and a rather gorgeous tartan scarf was wrapped around his
neck.  In one hand he carried a huge, bulging old Gladstone bag and
in the other what was evidently a fiddle done up in a flannel case.

Tillytuck stood and looked at the three wimmen critters out of
twinkling little black eyes almost buried in cushions of fat.

"How pleased ye look to see me!" he said.  "Only sorter paralysed
as it were.  Well, I can't help being good-looking."

He went into what seemed an internal convulsion of silent chuckles.
Pat jerked herself out of her trance.  Mother had gone upstairs . . .
somebody must do . . . say . . . something.  Judy, probably for
the first time in her life, seemed incapable of speech or movement.

Pat scrambled up from the rug and went forward.

"Mr . . . Mr. Tillytuck, is it?"

"The same, at your service . . . Christian name, Josiah," said the
newcomer, with a bow that might have been courtly if he had had any
neck to speak of.  It was not till afterwards that Pat thought what
a nice voice he had.  "Age, fifty-five . . . in politics, Liberal
. . . religion, fundamentalist . . . gentleman-at-large, symbolically
speaking.  And an Orangeman," he added, looking at a large picture
of King William on a white horse, crossing the Boyne, that hung
upon the wall.

"Won't you . . . take off your coat . . . and sit down?" said Pat
rather stupidly.  "You see . . . we didn't expect you tonight.
Father told us you would be here to-morrow."

"I got a chance up on a truck to Silverbridge so I thought I'd
better take it," rumbled Mr. Tillytuck.  He hung his cap up on a
nail, revealing a head thatched with thick pepper-and-salt curls.
He took off his scarf and coat and the cause of a mysterious bulge
at one side was explained . . . a huge, stuffed, white Arctic owl
which he proudly set up on the clock shelf.  He put his bag in one
corner with his fiddle on top of it.  Then, with unerring
discrimination, he selected the most comfortable chair in the
kitchen . . . Great-grandfather Nehemiah Gardiner's old glossy
wooden armchair with its red cushions . . . sank into it and
produced a stubby black pipe from his pocket.

"Any objections?" he rumbled.  "I never smoke if ladies object."

"We don't," said Pat.  "We're used to Uncle Tom smoking."

Mr. Tillytuck deliberately loaded and lighted his pipe.  Ten
minutes before no one in the room had ever seen him.  And now he
seemed to belong there . . . to have been always there.  It was
impossible to think of him as a stranger or a change.  Even Judy,
who, as a rule, didn't care what any man thought of her clothes,
was thanking her stars that she had on her new drugget dress and a
white apron.  McGinty had sniffed once at him approvingly and then
gone to sleep again, ignoring the new dog entirely.  The two grey
cats went on purring.  Only Gentleman Tom hadn't yet made up his
mind and continued to stare at him suspiciously.

Mr. Tillytuck's body was almost as square as his face and was
encased in a faded and rather ragged old grey sweater, revealing
glimpses of a red flannel shirt which brought a sudden peculiar
gleam into Judy's eyes.  It was so exactly the shade she would be
wanting for the red rosebuds in the rug she meant to hook coming on
spring.

"If ye've no objection to the pipe have ye any to the dog?" went on
Mr. Tillytuck.  "If ye haven't maybe ye wouldn't mind him lying
down in that corner over there."

Judy decided that it was time she asserted herself.  After all,
this was HER kitchen, not MISTER Tillytuck's.

"Oh, oh, and is it a well-behaved dog he is, MISTER Tillytuck, I'm
asking ye."

"He is," replied Tillytuck solemnly.  "But he's been an unfortunate
kind of dog . . . born to ill-luck as the sparks fly upward.  Ye
may not believe me, Miss . . . Miss . . ."

"Plum," said Judy shortly.

"Miss Plum, that dog has had a hard life of it.  He's had mange and
distemper once each and worms continual.  He got run over by a
truck last summer and poisoned by strychnine the summer before
that."

"He must have as many lives as a cat," giggled Cuddles.

"He's in good health now," assured Mr. Tillytuck.  "He's a bit lame
from cutting his foot with a sliver of broken glass last week but
he'll soon be over it.  And he throws a fit once in a while . . .
epileptic.  Foams at the mouth.  Staggers.  Falls.  In ten minutes
gets up and trots away as good as new.  So ye need never be
worrying about him if ye see him take one.  He's really a broth of
a dog, only kind of sensitive, and fine with the cows.  I have a
great respect for dogs . . . always touch my cap when I meet one."

"What is his name?" asked Pat.

"I call him just Dog," responded Mr. Tillytuck.  And Just Dog he
remained during his entire sojourn at Silver Bush.

"A bit too glib wid yer tongue, MISTER Tillytuck," thought Judy.
But she only said,

"And what may yer mind be in regard to cats?"

"Oh," said Mr. Tillytuck, who seemed quite contented with a whiff
of his pipe between speeches, "I have a feeling for cats, Miss
Plum.  When I wandered in here the other morning I thought I'd like
the people here because there was a cat on the window sill.  It's a
kind of instink with me.  So thinks I to myself, 'This place has
got a flavour.  I could do with a job here.'  And how right I was!"

"Where might your last place be?"

"On a fox farm down South Shore way.  No names mentioned.  I've
been there three years.  Got on well . . . liked it well . . . till
the old missus died and the boss married again.  I couldn't pull
with the new one at all.  Everything on the table bought and only
enough to keep the worms quiet at that.  A terrible tetchie old
woman.  Ye couldn't mention the weather to her but she'd quarrel
with ye over it.  Seemed to take it as a personal insult if you
didn't like the day.  Then she picked on Dog right along.  'Even a
dog has some rights, woman,' I told her.  'You and me ain't going
to click,' I told her.  I'm rather finnicky as to the company I
keep,' I told her.  'My dog is better company than a contentious
woman,' I told her.  'I'm nobody's slave,' I told her . . . and
give notice.  When I can't stay in a place without quarrelling with
the folks I just mosey along.  Likely I'll be here quite a while.
Looks like a snug harbour to me.  This arm-chair just fits my
kinks.  I've had my ups and downs.  Escaped from the Titanic for
one thing."

"Oh!"  Cuddles and Pat were all eyes and ears.  This WAS exciting.
Judy gave her soup a vicious swirl.  Was she to have a rival in the
story telling art?

"Yes, I escaped," said Mr. Tillytuck, "by not sailing in her."  He
put his pipe back into his mouth and emitted a rumble which they
were to learn he called laughter.

"Oh, oh, so that do be your idea of a joke," thought Judy.  "I'm
getting yer measure, MISTER Tillytuck."

"Not but what I've had my traggedies," resumed Mr. Tillytuck.  He
rolled up his sweater sleeve and showed a long white scar on his
sinewy arm.  "A leopard gave me that when I was a tamer in a circus
in the States in my young days.  Ah, that was the exciting life.  I
have a peculiar power over animals.  No animal," said Mr. Tillytuck
impressively, "can look me in the eye."

"Oh, oh, and are ye married?" persisted Judy remorselessly.

"Not by a jugful!" exclaimed Mr. Tillytuck, so explosively that
every one jumped, even Gentleman Tom.  Then he subsided into
mildness again.  "No, I've neither wife nor progeny, Miss Plum.
I've often tried to get married but something always prevented.
Sometimes every one was willing but the girl herself.  Sometimes
nobody was willing.  Sometimes I couldn't get the question out.  If
I hadn't been such a temperance man I might have been married many
a time.  Needed something to loosen my tongue."

Mr. Tillytuck winked at Pat and Pat had a horrible urge to wink
back at him.  Really, some people did have a queer effect on you.

"I've always thought nobody understood me quite as well as I
understood myself," resumed Mr. Tillytuck.  "It isn't likely I'll
ever marry now.  But while there's life there's hope."  This time
it was at Judy he winked and Judy felt that she was not half as
"mad" as she should be.  She gave her soup a final stir and stood
up briskly.

"Wud ye be jining us in a sup av soup, MISTER Tillytuck?"

"Ah, some small refreshment will not be amiss," responded Mr.
Tillytuck in a gratified tone.  "I am not above the pleasures of
the palate in moderation.  And ever since I entered this dwelling
I've been saying to myself whenever you stirred that pot, 'Of all
the smells that I ever did smell I never smelled a smell that
smelled half as good as that smell smells.'"

Pat and Cuddles proceeded to set the table.  Mr. Tillytuck watched
them with approbation.

"A pair of high-steppers," he remarked presently in a hoarse aside
to Judy.  "Some class to THEM.  The little one has the wrist of an
aristycrat."

"Oh, oh, and so ye've noticed that now?" said Judy, highly
gratified.

"Naturally.  I'm an expert in regard to weemen.  'There's elegance
for you,' I said to myself the moment I opened the door.  Some
difference from the girls at the fox farm.  Just between friends,
Miss Plum, they looked like dried apples on a string.  One of them
was as thin as a weasel and living on lettuce to get thinner.  But
these two now . . . Cupid will be busy I reckon.  No doubt you've a
terrible time with the boys hanging round, Miss Plum?"

"Oh, oh, we're not altogether overlooked," said Judy complacently.
"And now, MISTER Tillytuck, will ye be sitting in?"

Mr. Tillytuck slid into a chair.

"I wonder if you'd mind leaving out the 'mister,'" he said.  "I'm
not used to it and it makes me feel like a pilgrim and sojourner.
Josiah, now . . . if you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, oh, but I wud," said Judy decidedly.  "Sure and Josiah has
always been a name I cudn't bear iver since old Josiah Miller down
at South Glen murdered his wife."

"I was well acquainted with Josiah Miller," remarked Mr. Tillytuck,
taking up his spoon.  "First he choked his wife, then he hanged
her, then he dropped her in the river with a stone tied to her.
Taking no chances.  Ah, I knew him well.  In fact, I may say he was
a particular friend of mine at one time.  But after that happened
of course I had to drop him."

"Did they hang him?" demanded Cuddles with ghoulish interest.

"No.  They couldn't prove it although everybody knew he did it.
They kind of sympathised with him.  There's an odd woman that HAS
to be murdered.  He died a natural death but his ghost walked.  I
met it once on a time."

"Oh!"  Cuddles didn't notice Judy's evident disapproval of this
poaching on her preserves.  "Really, Mr. Tillytuck?"

"No mistake, Miss Gardiner.  Most ghosts is nothing but rats.  But
this was a genuwine phantom."

"Did he . . . did he speak to you?"

Mr. Tillytuck nodded.

"'I see you're out for a walk like myself,' says he.  But I made no
reply.  I have discovered it is better not to monkey with spooks,
miss.  Interesting things, but dangerous.  So irresponsible,
speaking romantically.  So, as Friend Josiah was right in the road
and I couldn't get past him I just walked through him.  Never saw
him again.  Miss Plum, this IS soup."

Judy had spent the evening swinging from approval to disapproval of
Mr. Tillytuck . . . which continued to be the case during his whole
sojourn at Silver Bush.  His appreciation of her soup got him
another bowlful.  Pat was wishing father would come home from
Swallowfield.  Perhaps Mr. Tillytuck didn't know he had to sleep in
the granary.  But Mr. Tillytuck said, as he got up from the table,

"I understand my quarters is in the granary . . . so if you'll be
kind enough to tell me where it is . . ."

"MISS RACHEL will be taking the flashlight and showing ye the way,"
said Judy.  "There do be plinty av good blankets on the bed but I'm
afraid ye'll find it cold.  There do be no fire since we didn't be
knowing ye were coming."

"I'll kindle one in a jiffy."

"Oh, oh, thin ye'll be smoked out.  That fire has to be lit for an
hour afore it'll give over smoking.  There do be something out av
kilter wid the chimney.  Long . . . Mr. Gardiner is maning to have
it fixed."

"I'll fix it myself.  I worked with a mason for years.  Down at the
fox farm they had a bad chimney and I built it over in fine shape."

"Did it draw?" asked Judy sceptically.

"Draw!  Miss Plum, that chimney drew the cat clean up it one night.
The poor animal was never seen again."

Judy subsided.  Mr. Tillytuck possessed himself of his bag and his
violin and his owl and his dog.

"I'm ready, Miss Gardiner.  And as for the matter of names, Miss
Plum, the Prince of Wales called me Josiah the whole summer I
worked on his ranch in Alberta.  A very democratic young man.  But
if you can't bring yourself to it plain Tillytuck will do for me.
And if you've warts or anything like that on your hands" . . .
Cuddles guiltily put a hand behind her . . . "I can cure them in a
jiffy."

Judy primmed her mouth and took a high tone.

"Thank ye kindly but we do be knowing a few things at Silver Bush.
Me grandmother did be taching me a charm for warts whin I was a
girleen and it works rale well.  Goodnight, MISTER Tillytuck.  I'm
hoping ye'll be warm and slape well."

"I'll be in the arms of old Murphy in short order," assured Mr.
Tillytuck.

They heard Cuddles' laughter floating back through the rain all the
way to the granary.  Evidently Mr. Tillytuck was amusing her.

"Certainly he is peculiar," said Pat.  "But peculiar people give
colour to life, don't they, Judy?"

Cuddles ran in, her face sparkling and radiant from wind and rain.

"Isn't he a darling?  He told me he belonged to one of the best
families in Nova Scotia."

"Av which statement I have me doubts," said Judy.  "I'm thinking he
was spaking symbolically, as he sez himsilf.  And it didn't use to
be manners, taking yer story right out av yer mouth as ye heard him
do to mesilf.  But he sames a good-natured simple sort av cratur
and likely we can put up wid him as long as our family animals
can."

"He thinks you're wonderful, Judy.  And he wishes you WOULD call
him Josiah."

"That I'll not thin.  But I'm not saying I won't be laving off the
Mister after a day or two.  It's too much of a strain.  Cuddles
dear, to-morry I'll be fixing up a bit av a charm for that liddle
wart av yours.  I'm knowing it shud av been attinded to long ago
but what wid all these comings and goings and hirings it wint out
av me head.  Oh, oh, I'll not be having any MISTER Tillytuck wid a
side-whisker casting up the fam'ly warts to me!"

"I must write Hilary all about him," laughed Pat.  "He would
delight in him.  Oh, Judy, if Hilary could only drop in some of
these November evenings as he used to do things would be perfect.
It's over two years now since he went away and it seems like a
hundred.  Is there any soup left for Sid, Judy?"

"Loads and lashings av it.  Was it to the dance at South Glen he
was going?"

"Wherever he went he took Madge Robinson," said Cuddles.  "He's
giving her quite a rush now.  All summer it was Sara Russell.  I
believe Sid is a dreadful flirt."

Pat smiled contentedly.  There was safety in numbers.  After all,
Sid had never seemed really to have a serious notion of any girl
since Bets had died.  It pleased Pat to think he would be faithful
to her sweet memory all his life . . . as she, Pat, would be.  She
would never have another intimate girl friend.  She liked to think
of herself as a happy old maid and Sid a happy old bachelor, living
gaily together all their lives, loving and caring for Silver Bush,
with Winnie and Cuddles and Joe coming home for long visits with
their families, and McGinty and the cats living forever and Judy
telling stories in the kitchen.  One couldn't think of Silver Bush
without Judy.  She had always been there and of course she always
would be.

"Judy," said Cuddles solemnly, turning back in the hall doorway on
her way to bed, "Judy, mind you don't go and fall in love with
Josiah.  I saw him winking at you."

Judy's only reply was a snort.


4


The days of that late autumn seemed to Pat to slip by like a golden
river of happiness, even after the last cricket song had been sung.
Mother was keeping well . . . father was jubilant over the good
harvest . . . Cuddles was taking more interest in her lessons . . .
the surplus kittens of the summer's crop had all found excellent
homes . . . and there was enough of dances and beaus to satisfy
Pat's not very passionate love of social life.  Almost any time she
would have preferred to roast apples and bandy lovely ghost stories
in Judy's kitchen to going to a party.  Cuddles could not
understand this: SHE was longing for the day when she would be old
enough to go to dances and have "boyfriends."

"I mean to have a great deal of ATTENTION," she told Judy gravely.
"A few flirtations . . . NICE ones, Judy . . . and then I'll fall
in love SENSIBLY."

"Oh, oh," said Judy with a twinkle, "I'm thinking that can't be
done, Cuddles darlint.  A sinsible love affair now . . . it do be
sounding a bit dull to me."

"Pat says she's never going to fall in love with anybody.  I really
believe she does want to be an old maid, Judy."

"I've been hearing girls talk that way afore now," scoffed Judy.
But she was secretly uneasy.  The Silver Bush girls in any
generation had never been flirts but she would have liked Pat to
show a little more interest in the young men who came and went at
Silver Bush and took her to dances and pictures and corn-roasts and
skating parties and moonlight snowshoe tramps.  Pat had any number
of "boy-friends" but friends were all they were or seemed likely to
be.  Judy was quite elated when Milton Taylor of South Glen began
haunting Silver Bush and taking Pat out when she would go.  But Pat
would not go often enough to please Judy.

"Oh, oh, Patsy dear, he'll have the finest farm in South Glen some
day and the nice boy he is!  It's the affectionate husband he'd be
making ye."

"'An affectionate husband,'" giggled Pat.  "Oh, Judy, you're so
Victorian.  Affectionate husbands are out of date.  We like the
cave men, don't we, Cuddles?"

Cuddles and Pat exchanged grins.  In spite of the difference in
their ages they were great chums and Pat had a dreadful habit of
telling Cuddles all about her beaus, what they did and what they
said.  Pat had a nippy tongue when she chose and the youths in
question would not have been exactly delighted if they could have
overheard her.

"But don't you intend to get married sometime, Pat?" Cuddles asked
once.

Pat shook her brown head impatiently.

"Oh . . . sometime perhaps . . . when I have to . . . but not for
years and years.  Why, Silver Bush couldn't spare me."

"But if Sid brings a wife in sometime . . ."

"Sid won't do that," cried Pat passionately.  "I don't believe Sid
will ever marry.  You know he was in love with Bets, Cuddles.  I
believe he will always be faithful to her memory."

"Judy says men aren't like that.  And every one says May Binnie is
making a dead set at him."

"Sid will never marry May Binnie . . . that's one thing I'm sure
of," said Pat.  The very thought made her feel cold.  She and May
Binnie had always hated each other.

Tillytuck was almost as much interested in Pat's affairs as was
Judy.  Every young man who came to Silver Bush got a severe
scrutiny, though he knew it not, from Tillytuck's little black
eyes.  It delighted him to listen to Pat's badinage.

"Gosh, but she knows how to handle the men!" he exclaimed
admiringly one night, when the door closed behind Pat and Milton
Taylor.  "She'll make a fine wife for some one.  I admit that I
admire her deportment, Judy."

"Oh, oh, we all do know how to be handling the men at Silver Bush,
Tillytuck," said Judy loftily.

For it was "Judy" and "Tillytuck" now.  Judy would none of Josiah
and "mister" was too formal to keep up for long.  They were
excellent friends after a fashion.  It seemed to Judy, as to
everybody, that Tillytuck must have always been at Silver Bush.  It
was impossible to believe that it was only six weeks since he had
dropped in with his owl and his fiddle and Just Dog.  The very cats
purred louder when he came into the house.  To be sure, Gentleman
Tom never quite approved of him.  But then Gentleman Tom had always
been a reserved, taciturn cat who never really took up with any one
but Judy.

Tillytuck had his prescriptive corner and chair in the kitchen and
he was always slipping in to ask Judy to make a cup of tea for him.
The fun of it, to Pat and Cuddles, was that Judy always made it,
without a word of complaint.  She soon discovered that Tillytuck
had a sweet tooth where pies and cake were concerned and when she
was in a good humour with him there was usually a triangle of one
or a slice of the other waiting for him, to the amusement of the
girls who affected to believe that Judy was "sweet" on Tillytuck,
much to her scorn.  Sometimes she would even sit down on the other
side of the stove and drink a cup of tea with him.  When she felt
compelled to scold him he always soothed her with a compliment.

"See how I can manage the weemen," he would whisper complacently to
Pat.  "Ain't it the pity I'm not a marrying man?"

"Perhaps you may marry yet," responded Pat with a grave face,
dropping a dot of red jelly like a gleaming ruby in the pale yellow
centre of her lemon tarts.

"Maybe . . . when I make up my mind whether I want to take pity on
Judy or not," Tillytuck answered with a wink.  "There's times when
I think she'd suit me.  She's fond of talking and I'm fond of
listening."

Judy ignored nonsense of this kind.  She had, so she informed the
girls, taken Tillytuck's measure once and for all.

She was, however, very bitter because he never went to church.
Judy thought all hired men ought to go to church.  It was only
respectable.  If they did not go who knew but that censorious
neighbours would claim it was because they were so overworked at
Silver Bush during the week that they did not be having the
strength to go to church on Sundays.  But Tillytuck was adamantine
to her arguments.

"I don't approve of human hymns," he said firmly.  "Nothing should
be sung in churches but the psalms of David . . . with maybe an
occasional paraphrase on special occasions.  Them's my principles
and I sticks to them.  I always sing a psalm before I go to bed and
every Sunday morning I read a chapter in my testament."

"And on Waping Willy's tombstone," muttered Judy, who, for some
mysterious reason resented Tillytuck's habit of going into the
graveyard to read the said chapter.

And then . . . Christmas was drawing near and Great Preparations
were being made.  You could hear the capitals in Tillytuck's voice
when he referred to them.  They were going to have a real "re-
union."  Winnie and Frank would come and Uncle Tom and Aunt Edith
and Aunt Barbara from Swallowfield and Aunt Hazel and Uncle Rob
Madison and their five children and the Bay Shore Great-aunts if
their rheumatism let them.  In fact, it was to be what Judy called
"a regular tommyshaw" and Pat was brimful of happiness and
expectation over it all.  It would be the first "real" Christmas
since she had become the virtual mistress of Silver Bush.  The
previous one Frank had had bronchitis, so he and Winnie couldn't
come, and the one before that Aunt Hazel's family had measles and
Hilary was not there for the first time in years, and it hadn't
been a Christmassy Christmas at all.  But everything would be
different this year.  And Joe expected to be home for the first
Christmas since he went away.  Judy's turkeys were fat as fat could
be and there was to be a goose because dad liked goose and a couple
of ducks because Uncle Tom liked ducks.  As for the rest of the
bill of fare, Pat was poring over cookbooks most of her spare time.
Many and old were the cookbooks of Silver Bush, full of clan
recipes that had stood the test of time.  Most of them had nice
names linked up with all kinds of people who had invented the
recipes . . . many of them people who were dead or in far lands.
It gave Pat a thrill to thumb them over . . . Grandmother Selby's
jellied cabbage salad . . . Aunt Hazel's ginger cookies . . .
Cousin Miranda's beefsteak pie . . . the Bay Shore pudding . . .
Great-grandmother Gardiner's fruit cake . . . Old Joe Pingle's
mince pie . . . Uncle Horace's raisin gravy.  Pat never could find
out who Old Joe Pingle was.  Nobody, not even Judy, seemed to know.
But Uncle Horace had brought the recipe for raisin gravy home from
his first voyage and told Judy he had killed a man for it . . .
though nobody believed him.

Judy was planning to get a new "dress-up dress" for the occasion.
Her old one, a blue garment of very ancient vintage, was ralely a
liddle old-fashioned.

"And besides, Patsy dear, I'd be nading it if I took a run over to
ould Ireland some av these long-come-shorts.  I can't be getting
the thought out av me head iver since Cuddles put it in.  Sure and
if I wint I'd want to make a rale good apparance afore me ould
frinds, not to spake av a visit to Castle McDermott.  What wud ye
think av a nice wine-colour, Patsy?  They tell me it's rale
fashionable, this fall.  And mebbe sating as a bit av a change from
silk."

Pat, although the thought of Judy going to Ireland, even if only
for a visit, gave her a nasty sensation, entered heartily into the
question of the new dress and went to town with Judy to help in the
selection and bully the dressmaker into making it exactly as Judy
wanted it.  Uncle Tom was in town that day and they saw him dodging
out of a jeweller's shop, trying hastily to secrete a small,
ornately wrapped parcel in his pocket before he encountered them.
Not succeeding, he muttered something about having to see a man and
shot down a side street.

"Uncle Tom is awfully mysterious about something these days," said
Pat.  "What do you suppose he has been buying in that shop?  I'm
sure it couldn't have been anything for Aunt Edith or Aunt
Barbara."

"Oh, oh, Patsy dear, I'm belaving yer Uncle Tom has a notion av
getting married.  I know the signs."

Pat experienced another disagreeable sensation.  Change at
Swallowfield was almost as bad as change at Silver Bush.  Uncle Tom
and the aunts had ALWAYS lived there . . . always would.  Pat
couldn't fit an Aunt Tom into the picture at all.  "Oh, Judy, I
can't think he would be so foolish.  At his age!  Why, he's sixty!"

"Wid me own eyes, Patsy, I saw him rading a letter one day and
stuffing it into his pocket like mad whin he caught me eye on him.
And blushing!  Whin a man av his age do be blushing there's
something quare in the wind.  Do ye be minding back in the summer
Cuddles telling us she was after mailing letters from him to a
lady?"

Pat sighed and put the disagreeable matter out of her mind.  She
wasn't going to have the afternoon spoiled.  There were many things
to buy besides Judy's satin dress.  Pat loved shopping.  It was so
fascinating to go into the big department store and pick things to
buy . . . pretty things that just wanted to be taken away from all
the glitter and too-muchness to be made part of a real home.  They
had to have some new overdrapes for the dining-room and new covers
for the Big Parlour cushions and a set of little glass dishes to
serve the chilled fruit cocktails Pat had decided on for the first
course of the Christmas dinner.  Judy was a little dubious about
trying to put on too much style . . . "cocktails" had a quare sound
whin all was said and done and Silver Bush had always been a great
timperance place . . .

"Oh, Judy darling, it isn't that kind of cocktails at all.  Just
bits of fruit . . . and juice . . . and a red maraschino cherry on
top.  You'll love them."

Judy surrendered.  If Patsy wanted quality dishes she must have
them.  Anyhow, Judy was sure the Binnies never opened a dinner with
cocktails and it was always well to be a few frills ahead of them.
Judy enjoyed every minute of her excursion to town and brought home
a wine-coloured satin of a lustre to dazzle even Castle McDermott.
It dazzled Tillytuck to whom Judy proudly displayed it that night.

"A bit too voluptuous" was all he would say.  And got no pie that
night.  Tillytuck confessed to himself as he took his way to the
granary that this was one of the times he had failed in tact.  If
he has known that Judy had in the pantry a cold roast duck and a
dish of browned potato which she had intended to share with him by
way of a "liddle bite" he would have had still poorer opinion of
his tact.  As it was, Cuddles discovered it and she and Pat and
Judy did justice to it before they went to bed, Sid coming in at
the last to pick the bones and listen to Judy's story about a lost
diamond ring that had been found in a turkey's crop cut open by
accident.

"And that do be minding me . . . did I iver be telling ye av the
first time yer Aunt Hazel dressed a turkey for dinner whin she was
a slip av a girleen?  Oh, oh, there niver was such a disgrace at
Silver Bush.  It tuk us years to live it down."

"What happened, Judy?"

"Ye'll niver be telling her I told ye?  Well, thin, she tuk a great
notion to be dressing and stuffing the turkey for dinner one time
and nobody was to interfere wid it.  We didn't be ixpicting any
company that day, just having the turkey for ourselves we were, not
being Binnies as sells ivery blessed thing off the farm they can
and living on potatoes and point.  But unixpicted company come . . .
quality folks from town no less . . . a mimber of Parlymint and
his lady wife.  I did be thanking me stars we had the turkey but
oh, oh, what happened whin yer dad cut a slice off the brist,
maning to give all white mate to the lady visitor!"

"Judy, what DID happen?  Don't be so mysterious."

"Mysterious, is it?  Well, it's hating to tell it av Silver Bush I
am.  Not but what yer dad laughed till he was sick afterwards.
Well, thin, to tell the worst, yer Aunt Hazel had niver taken out
the turkey's crop and whin yer dad carved off that slice kernels av
whate and a bunch av oats fell down all over the plate.  I wasn't
there av coorse . . . I niver wud be setting at the table whin
there was quality company . . . and it did be well I wasn't for
niver wud I have been the same agin.  It was bad enough to hear yer
grandmother telling av it.  She niver hilt up her head quite so
high agin, poor ould leddy.  Oh, oh, it's only something to be
laughing over now, though we did be thinking it was a tragedy
thin."

Cuddles screamed over the tale but Pat felt a little troubled.  It
WAS a dreadful thing to have happened at Silver Bush even if it had
been a quarter of a century before.  Nothing worse could have been
told of the Binnies.

"I do hope nothing disgraceful will happen at our Christmas
dinner," she said anxiously.

"Niver worry, Patsy dear.  There do be no paycock's feathers in the
house now.  Sure and I burned thim all the day after THAT.  Yer
Uncle Horace said I was a superstitious ould woman and was rale
peeved bekase he had brought thim home.  So there'll be nothing to
bring us bad luck but still I'll be thankful whin it's all well
over.  As Tillytuck was remarking yisterday, there do be a certain
amount av nervous strain over it all."

"Tillytuck told me to-day that his grandfather was a pirate," said
Cuddles.  "Also that he was through the Halifax horror when that
ship loaded with munitions blew up in the days of the war.  Do you
really think, Judy, that Tillytuck has had all the adventures that
he says he has?"

Judy's only reply was a sardonic laugh.


5


Christmas was drawing nearer and there was so much to be done.  Pat
and Cuddles worked like beavers and Judy flew about, or tried to,
in three directions at once.  A big box of goodies had to be packed
and sent to Hilary . . . poor Hilary who must spend his Christmas
in a dreary Toronto boarding house.  Mince meat and Christmas cake
must be concocted.  Judy had to go for fittings of the new dress
and nearly died of them.  The silver and brasses had to be cleaned:
everything must be made spick and span.

"The things in this house ARE nice," said Cuddles, as she rubbed at
the spoons.  "I wonder why.  They're not really so handsome but
they're NICE."

"They're loved, that's why," said Pat softly.  "They've been loved
and cared for for years.  I love everything in this house TERRIBLY,
Cuddles."

"I believe you love them too much, Pat.  I love them, too, but you
seem to worship them."

"I can't help it.  Silver Bush means everything to me and it seems
to mean more every year of my life.  I do want this Christmas to go
off well . . . everything just right . . . all the folks enjoying
themselves.  Judy, do you think six mince pies will be enough?  It
would be disgraceful if we didn't have enough of everything."

"Loads and lashings," assured Judy.  "Mrs. Tom Robinson do be
thinking we're tarrible extravagant.  'A fat kitchen makes a lean
will,' she did be sighing to me the other day whin she was in,
borrying the quilt clamps off av me.  'Oh, oh,' sez I, 'we're not
like the Birtwhistles at the bridge,' sez I.  'After they do be
having a bit av company,' sez I, 'not a dab av butter will be et in
that house till all the extry bills are made up,' sez I.  She tuk
it wid her chin up but she was faling it all right.  Ould Mrs.
Birtwhistle was her mother's cousin.  Oh, oh, I'm knowing too much
about all the folks in these parts for inny av thim to be giving me
digs in me own kitchen.  A lean will indade!  Plaze the Good Man
Above it'll be a long time afore there's inny nade to talk av wills
at Silver Bush."

"But Aunt Edith says we do live too high at Silver Bush," said
Cuddles.  "She says we really ought to be more frugal."

"Frugal!  I hate that word," said Pat.  "It sounds so . . . so
porridgy.  I do hope Joe will get home in time.  We must give a
party for him if he does, some night between Christmas and New
Year's.  I love to give parties.  It's so nice to see people coming
to Silver Bush in pretty dresses, all smiling and happy.  I hope
everybody will have a good appetite Christmas Day.  I love to feed
hungry people."

"Oh, oh, and what are women for if it's not to fade the world?"
said Judy complacently.  "Sure and it do be giving me pleasure just
to see a cat lapping his milk.  It's glad I am you girls do be
having the rale Silver Bush notions av hospitality.  I'm minding
the fuss yer Aunt Jessie did be making once bekase company came
unixpicted like and she had nothing to give thim to ate.  Niver was
Silver Bush in inny such predicament I'm telling ye."

"There ain't so much fun here as at the Jebbs' though," said
Tillytuck, who was sandpapering an axe-handle in his corner and
thought Judy needed taking down a bit.  "They were always
quarrelling there.  Two would start and then all the rest would
join in.  It was interesting.  You folks here never quarrel.  I
never saw such a harmonious family."

"I should think we wouldn't quarrel," said Pat indignantly.  "It
would be terrible to have quarrels at Silver Bush.  I hope we
never, never will have."

"You'll be a fortunate family then," said Tillytuck.  "There ain't
many families but have a ruction once in a while."

"I think I would DIE if any of us quarrelled," said Pat.  "We leave
that to people like the Binnies."

Hope died hard in the matter of Joe but the days passed without any
word of him or his ship.  It was over three years since Joe had
been home and Pat always knew, when she surprised a certain look in
mother's eyes, that she was longing for her sailor boy.  It would
shadow mother's Christmas a bit if Joe didn't get home in time for
it.

Pat had hoped for a fine Christmas day, clear and crisp, with a
crackle of frost and unspoiled fields of snow and caps of lovely
white fur on the posts down the lane: but she felt dubious as she
took her last look from the kitchen door late on Christmas Eve.
She and Judy had stayed up to make the stuffing for "the birds" but
Judy was now folding weary hands for slumber in the kitchen chamber
and Tillytuck had gone to sleep, perchance to snore, in the granary
loft.  A snarling, quarrelsome wind was fighting with the white
birches and wailing around the barns.  It did not sound like a fine
day on the morrow but one must hope for the best, as Judy said.
Pat shut out the chill of the winter night and paused a moment in
the warm old kitchen to gloat over things in general.  Everything
she loved best was safe under her roof.  The house seemed breathing
softly and contentedly in its sleep.  Life was very sweet.

Pat's hopes for a fine day were vain.  Christmas morning dawned on
a dreadful combination of fog and rain.  Rain by itself, Pat always
thought, was an honest thing . . . fog lovely and eerie . . . but
together they were horrible.  Tillytuck agreed with her.

"It's fogging, Judy," he said dolefully when he came in for
breakfast.  "Fogging hard.  I can put up with a rainy day but I
can't come these half-and-halfs, like a woman who never knows her
own mind.  No, sir."

"Oh, oh, and I'm not knowing what's to be done, wid people tramping
all over me clane floor in dirty boots," said Judy viciously.

"We'll just have to do as they do in Nova Scotia, Judy."

Judy bit.

"Oh, oh, and what is it they do in Novy Scoshy, if a body may ask?"

"They do the best they can," said Tillytuck solemnly, as he went
out with the milking pails.  Tillytuck mostly did the milking now.
Judy had surrendered the chore unwillingly.  She was afraid, when
Long Alec insisted on it, that he thought she was growing too old
for it.  And she never could be brought to believe that Tillytuck
stripped the cows properly.  Besides, wasn't he ruining the young
barn cats by milking into their mouths?  That was no way to be
training cats.  Ye wudn't be catching Gintleman Tom or Bold-and-Bad
or Squedunk at inny such capers.

After breakfast the blue and gold and purple and silver parcels
were distributed and every one was pleased.  Pat had been afraid
Sid might not like the rather gorgeous silk pyjamas she had got him
but Sid did.

"They're the very niftiest pyjamas I ever saw in my life," vowed
Cuddles.

"And where have you seen so many pyjamas, miss?" demanded Long
Alec, thinking to "get a rise" out of Cuddles.

"On the bargain counters," retorted Cuddles . . . and the laugh was
on dad.  It did not take much to make the Silver Bush people laugh.
Laughter came easily to them.

"Isn't she the cliver one," said Judy . . . and then stiffened in
horror.

Tillytuck was proudly uncovering his Christmas present for "the
missus."  A Jerusalem cherry!  A pretty thing, to be sure, with its
glossy green leaves and ruby red fruit, and mother was delighted
with it.  But Judy beat a sudden retreat to the kitchen, followed
by Pat.

"Judy, what is the matter?  You're never going to be sick to-day!"

"Patsy darlint, it's well if there's nothing worse than me being
sick happens here this blissed day.  Were ye seeing what that
Tillytuck did be giving to yer mother?  A Jerusalem cherry no less!
Sure and didn't I come all out wid gooseflesh whin I saw it."

"But what about it, Judy?  It's a pretty thing.  I thought it
lovely of Tillytuck to remember mother."

"Oh, oh, don't ye be knowing a Jerusalem cherry brings bad luck?
There was one brought into this house thirty years ago and yer
Uncle Tom slipped on the stairs and bruk three ribs that very
night.  I'm telling ye.  Patsy darlint, can't ye be contriving to
set the thing outside somewhere till the dinner be over at laste?"

Pat shook her head.

"We couldn't do that.  It would offend Tillytuck.  Anyway, I know
mother wouldn't hear of it.  You mustn't be superstitious, Judy.
A pretty thing like a Jerusalem cherry can't bring bad luck."

"I'm hoping ye're right, Patsy, but we'll be seeing what we'll see.
'Fogging, Judy,' sez he.  No wonder it do be fogging, and him wid
that Jerusalem thing in his granary that blissed minute!  But wid
all there is to see to I'm not to stand bithering here."

"I'm going to see about the spare room right off so that it will be
all in order if any one comes early," said Pat briskly.  "May I
have that new hooked rug you've got stored away in the attic to lay
by the bed . . . the one with the great soft, plushy roses?"

"Av coorse.  I mint it for yer hope chist but the way ye're
snubbing the min right and lift there'll be lashings av time for
THAT.  Put plinty av blankets on the bed, Patsy darlint.  If the
Bay Shore aunts come they may be staying all night.  Style widout
comfort is not the way av Silver Bush.  Yer Aunt Helen at Glenwood
now . . . ye do be knowing yersilf what style she puts on . . .
silk spreads and liddle lace and ribbing cushions . . . but I've
always been hearing that people who slipt there vowed they were
cold in bed.  The minister slipt there one night and so cold he was
he started prowling for a blanket in the night and fell down the
back stairs.  That was be way av being a disgrace.  I'm telling
ye."

Cuddles had already made the spare room bed and was infuriated
because Pat insisted on making it over again.

"You'll be as bad as Aunt Edith before you're thirty, Pat.  She
imagines nobody can do anything right but herself.  And Judy's no
better, no matter what she thinks.  She's been teaching me to make
gravy for weeks but now when I want to make it to-day she won't let
me.  You all make me weary."

"Don't be cross, Cuddles.  You made the bed as nicely as any one
could but the extra blankets have to be put on.  Cuddles, do you
know I love to make up beds and think of all the tired people who
will lie in them.  I couldn't bear it if any one should be cold in
bed in Silver Bush.  Will you get some of the silver polish and do
the mirrors?  I want them to shine like diamonds . . . especially
the one in the hall."

The hall mirror was one that had been brought out from France by
Great-great-grandmother, Marie Bonnet.  It was a long, softly
gleaming thing in a ruddy copper frame and Pat loved it.  Cuddles
had an affection for it, too, because she thought she looked nicer
in it than in any other mirror at Silver Bush.

"Sure and it was always the flattering one," said Judy, as Cuddles
rubbed at the frame.  "Minny's the pretty face that's looked into
it."

"I wonder," said Pat dreamily . . . passing carelessly through the
hall just to make sure Cuddles was doing the polishing right . . .
"if one came here some moonlit night one couldn't see all the
shadowy faces that once looked into it looking out again."

"Oh, oh, ye'd nade the enchanted mirror of Castle McDermott for
that," chuckled Judy.  "That looking glass wasn't like other
looking glasses.  There did be a curse on it.  I was always afraid
av it.  Be times it did be saming like a frind and thin again like
an inimy.  And I was always wanting to look in it, in spite av me
fear, jist to be seeing if innything looked out av it."

"And did anything ever, Judy?"

"Niver a bit av it, girl dear.  The looking glass wasn't for common
folks like mesilf.  Niver did I be seeing innything worse than me
own frickled face.  But there did be thim that did."

"What did they see, Judy?"

"Oh, oh, there's no time for that now.  It's me raisin gravy I must
be seeing to this blissed minute."

Pat shut the hall door and set her back against it resolutely.

"Judy, not one step do you stir from this hall till you've told us
what was seen in the McDermott mirror, if there's no raisin gravy
made this Christmas."

"Oh, oh," . . . Judy surrendered . . . "It's mebbe as well to tell
it whin Tillytuck can't be claiming to have stipped out av the
glass.  Did ye be hearing him the other avening whin I was telling
av the dance one Saturday night in South Glin that they kipt up too
late . . . past the stroke av twilve . . . and the Bad Man Below
intered?  Sez me Tillytuck solemnly, 'I rimimber it only too well.
I was at that dance.'  'Indade,' sez I, sarcastic-like, 'ye must be
an aged man, Tillytuck, for the dance was all av eighty years ago.'
But he carried it off wid a grin.  Ye can't shame that man.  But I
can't be rimimbering all the tales av the looking glass now.  There
was a Kathleen McDermott once who was no better than she shud be an
me fine lady whips out one night to meet her gintleman lover and
run away wid him.  But me grand gintleman was killed on his way to
her and Kathleen hurried back home thinking no one wud know.  But
the doors were closed agin her.  The McDermott had looked in the
glass and seen it all.  Bridget McDermott saw HER soldier husband
dying in India the night he was killed.  But nobody iver knew what
Nora McDermott saw for the pore liddle soul dropped the lamp she
was holding and her dress caught fire and she was dead in two
hours."

"Oh!"  Cuddles shivered deliciously.  "Why did they keep such a
terrible thing in the castle?"

"Sure, it BELONGED there," said Judy mysteriously.  "Ye wudn't have
thim move it.  And it was be way av being frindly as often as not.
Eileen McDermott knew her man was alive, shipwrecked on a South Say
island, whin iveryone else was sure for a whole winter that he was
drowned.  She saw him in the glass.  And the McDermott av me own
time saw a minuet danced in it one night and niver was inny the
worse av it.  And now I'm getting back to me kitchen.  I've wasted
enough time palavering wid ye."

"Half the fun of making preparations for anything is in talking
things over," reflected Cuddles, giving the mirror a final whisk.
It held no ghosts.  But Cuddles felt secretly satisfied with what
she saw in it.


6


Eventually everything was in readiness.  The table beautifully set
. . . Pat made Cuddles take off the tablecloth three times before
it was smooth enough to suit her . . . the house full of delicious
odours, everybody dressed up except Judy.

"I'm not putting on me dress-up dress till me dinner is out of the
way.  I'm not wanting spots on it.  Whin the last dish is washed
I'll slip up and put it on in time for supper.  They'll see me in
all my grandeur thin.  Yer table do be looking lovely, Patsy, but
I'm thinking it wud look better if that cherry thing didn't be
sitting in the middle av it."

"I thought it would please Tillytuck.  He's sensitive, you know.
And if it is going to bring us bad luck it will anyhow, so what
matter where it sits?"

"Sez she, laughing in her slave at the foolish ould woman.  Oh, oh,
we'll be seing, Patsy.  Joe hasn't come after all and I've me own
opinion as to what previnted him."

Pat looked about happily.  Everything was just right.  She must run
and tie Sid's neck-tie for him.  She loved to do that . . . nobody
else at Silver Bush could suit him.  What matter if a cold rain
were falling outside?  Here it was snug and warm, the smiling rooms
full of Christmas magic.  Then the old brass knocker on the front
door began to go tap-a-tap.  The first guests had arrived . . .
Uncle Brian and Aunt Jessie, who hadn't been asked at all but had
just decided to run down in the free and easy clan fashion and
bring rich old Cousin Nicholas Gardiner from New Brunswick, who was
visiting them and wanted to see his relatives at Silver Bush.  Pat,
as she let them in, cast one wild glance through the dining room
door to see if three more places could be crowded into the table
without spoiling it and knew they couldn't.  The Jerusalem cherry
had begun its dire work.

Soon everybody had come . . . Frank and Winnie, Aunt Hazel and
Uncle Robert Madison and all the little Madisons, the two stately
Great-aunts, Frances and Honor from the Bay Shore farm, Uncle Tom
and Aunt Barbara and Aunt Edith . . . the latter looking as
disapproving as usual.

"Raisin gravy," she sniffed, as she went upstairs.  "Judy Plum made
that on purpose.  She knows I can't eat raisin gravy.  It always
gives me dyspepsia."

But nobody seemed to have dyspepsia at that Christmas table.  At
first all went very well.  A dear, gentle lady, with golden-brown
eyes and silvery hair, sat at the head and her smile made every one
feel welcome.  Pat had elected to help Judy wait on the table but
every one else sat down.  The children sat at a special table in
the Little Parlour as was the custom of the caste, and the cocktail
course passed off without a hitch . . . three extra cocktails
having been hurriedly concocted by Cuddles who, however, forgot to
put a maraschino cherry on them.  Of course Aunt Edith got one of
the cherryless ones and blamed Judy Plum for it, and Great-aunt
Frances got another and felt slighted.  Old Cousin Nicholas got the
third and didn't care.  He never et the durn things anyhow.  Uncle
Tom ate his, although Aunt Edith reminded him that maraschino
cherries were apt to give old people indigestion.  "I'm not so aged
yet," said Uncle Tom stiffly.  Uncle Tom did look surprisingly
young, as Pat and Judy were quick to note.  The once flowing, wavy
black beard, which had been growing smaller all summer, was by now
clipped to quite a smart little point and he had got gold-rimmed
eyeglasses in place of the old spectacles.  Pat thought of those
California letters but put the thought resolutely away.  Nothing
must mar this Christmas dinner . . . though Winnie was telling a
story that would have been much better left untold.  Judy almost
froze in her tracks with horror as Winnie's clear voice drifted out
to the kitchen.

"It was just after Frank and I were married, you know.  I hadn't
really got settled down.  Unexpected company came to supper one
night and I sent Frank off to the store to get some sliced ham for
an emergency dish.  I thought it seemed RATHER pink when I was
arranging it on the plate . . . so nicely, with curly little
parsley sprays.  It DID look artistic.  Frank helped everybody and
then took a bite himself.  He laid down his fork and looked at me.
I knew something was awfully wrong but WHAT?  I stopped pouring the
tea and snatched up a mouthful of ham.  What do you think?"  Winnie
looked impishly around the table.  "That ham was RAW!"

Shouts of laughter filled the dining room.  Under cover of the
noise Pat dashed out to the kitchen where she and Judy had a silent
rage.  They had laughed themselves when Winnie had first told the
tale at Silver Bush.  But to tell it to all the world was a very
different thing.

"Oh, oh, the disgrace av having Edith and Mrs. Brian hear av it!"
moaned Judy.  "But niver be hard on her, Patsy.  I do be knowing
too well what loosened her tongue.  And were ye noticing that
Cuddles put the slim grane chair out av the liddle parlour for yer
Uncle Brian and it cracked in one leg?  Ivery time I've seen the
crack widening a bit and the Good Man Above only knows if it'll
last out the male.  And here's Tillytuck sulking bekase he slipped
on the floor and fell on his dog.  He's been vowing I spilled a
liddle gravy right in his corner, the great clumsy.  But it's time
to be taking in the soup."

And then, as if it had been waiting for Judy's words as a cue, the
Jerusalem cherry showed what it could really do when it gave its
mind to it.  It seemed as if everything happened at once.
Tillytuck, made sulkier still by Judy's speech, opened the door and
stalked furiously out into the rain.  Uncle Tom's wet, dripping
Newfoundland, who had followed the Swallowfield folks over, dashed
in.  Just Dog simply couldn't stand that, after being fallen on.
He flew at the intruder.  The two dogs rolled in a furry avalanche
right against Pat who had started for the dining room door bearing
a trayful of soup plates full of a delicious brew that Judy called
chicken broth.  Down went poor Pat in a frightful mêlée of dogs,
broken plates and spilled soup.  Hearing the din, every one, except
Cousin Nicholas, rushed out of the dining room.  Aunt Hazel's two
year old baby began to shriek piercingly.  Aunt Edith took a heart
attack on the spot.  Judy Plum, for the first and only time in her
life, lost her head but lost it to good purpose.  She grabbed a
huge pepper-pot from the dresser and hurled the contents full in
the faces of the writhing, snarling dogs.  It was effective.  The
Newfoundland tore loose, dashed wildly through the dining room,
ruining Aunt Jessie's new blue georgette dress as he collided with
her, tore through the hall, tore upstairs, ran into a delicately
papered pastel wall, tore down again, and escaped through the front
door which Billy Madison had presence of mind enough to open for
him.  As for Just Dog, he had bolted through the cellar door, which
had been left open, and struck the board shelf across the steps.
Just Dog, shelf, three tin pails, two stewpans, and a dozen glass
jars of Judy's baked damson preserves all crashed down the cellar
steps together!

It seemed that Pandemonium reigned at Silver Bush for the next
quarter of an hour.  Aunt Edith was gasping for breath and
demanding a cold compress.  She had to be taken upstairs by Aunt
Barbara and ministered to.

"Excitement always brings on that pain in my heart," she murmured
piteously.  "Judy Plum KNOWS that."

Uncle Tom and Uncle Brian were in kinks of laughter.  Aunt Frances
and Aunt Honor LOOKED "This is not how things are done at the Bay
Shore."  And poor Pat scrambled dizzily up from the floor, dripping
with soup, crimson with shame and humiliation.  It was Cuddles who
saved the situation.  Cuddles was superb.  She didn't lose her wits
for a second.

"Everybody go back and sit down," she ordered.  "Buddy, stop
yelling . . . stop it, I say!  Pat, slip up and get into another
dress.  Judy, clean up the mess.  There is plenty of soup left . . .
Pat had only half the servings on the tray and Judy hid a potful
away in the pantry.  I'll have it ready in a jacksniff.  Shut the
cellar door and keep that dog down there until he gets the pepper
out of his eyes."

Judy always declared she had never been as proud of any one at
Silver Bush as she was of Cuddles at that time.  But just at the
moment poor Judy was feeling nothing but the bitterest humiliation.
Never had such a shameful thing happened at Silver Bush.  Wait till
she got hold of Tillytuck!  Wait till she could get her hands on
that Jerusalem cherry.

In a surprisingly short time the guests were back at the table,
where Cousin Nicholas had been placidly eating crackers through all
the hullabaloo.  Cuddles and Judy between them served the soup.
Pat came down, clothed and in her right mind once more.  Two cats,
whose nervous systems had been shattered, fled to the peace and
calm of Judy's kitchen chamber.  The Jerusalem cherry bided its
time.  The goose-duck-turkey course was a grand success and Judy's
raisin gravy was acclaimed the last word in gravies.  The dessert
was amazing, though Cousin Nicholas did manage to upset a jug of
sauce over the tablecloth.  Judy came in and calmly mopped it up.
Judy had got her second wind now and was prepared for anything.

Pat sat down for the dessert and there was laughter.  People were
to seek Pat from birth till death because she gave them the gift of
laughter.  Though she had secret worry gnawing at her heart.  Aunt
Jessie had eaten only three spoonfuls of her pudding!  Wasn't it
good?  And Winnie . . . somehow . . . wasn't looking just right.
She had suddenly become very quiet and rather pale.

To Judy's thankfulness the cracked chair lasted the dinner out,
though it creaked alarmingly every time Uncle Brian moved.  Then
came "the grand dish-washing," as Judy called it, in the kitchen.
Judy and Pat and Cuddles tackled it gaily.  Things weren't so bad,
after all.  The guests were enjoying a good clan pi-jaw in the Big
Parlour and the children were sitting around Tillytuck in the
Little Parlour, looking up fascinated, while he told them stories.
"Tarrible lies," Judy vowed they were.  But then Tillytuck had once
said, "What a dull fellow I'd be if I never told anything but the
truth."  Anyhow, he was keeping "the young ones" quiet and that was
something.


7


The dishes disposed of, Pat and Judy began to think of the supper.
Judy determinedly set the Jerusalem cherry on the side-board and
hid the slim chair in the hall closet.  A fresh cloth . . . the one
with daisies woven in it . . . was brought out and Pat began to
feel cheered up.  After all, the guests were enjoying themselves
and that was the main thing.  Even Aunt Edith had come down, pale
and heroic and forgiving.  Just dog crawled out of the cellar and
coiled himself up in his own corner.  Silver Bush rang with gay
voices, firelight shimmered over pretty dishes, delicious things
were brought from pantry and cellar: and Pat thought proudly that
the supper table, with its lighted candles, looked even prettier
than the dinner table.  And its circle of faces was happy and wise
and kind.

"What's the matter with Win?" asked Cuddles, who had decided to
help wait with Judy and Pat and have her supper with them in the
kitchen later on.  "She's yellow and pea-green . . . is she sick?"

On the very heels of her question Frank came out hurriedly and
whispered something to Pat who gave an ejaculation of dismay.

"I didn't think it wise for her to come," said Frank.  "But she was
so anxious to . . . and you know . . . we didn't expect . . . THIS
. . . for two weeks."

Pat pushed him aside and ran to the telephone.  Confusion reigned
again at Silver Bush.  Winnie was being taken upstairs to the
Poet's room.  Pat and Judy were dashing madly from place to place.
Mother couldn't stay at the table.  Cuddles was left to wait on it
alone and did it well.  As Tillytuck was wont to aver, she had her
head screwed on right.  But it was a rather flat meal.  No
laughter.  And nobody had much appetite now, except Cousin
Nicholas.  A doctor and a nurse arrived in the pouring rain and as
soon as possible the guests departed . . . except Cousin Nicholas,
who hadn't caught on to the situation at all and announced his
intention of staying a few days at Silver Bush.

As soon as they had gone, Judy, with a set face, marched into the
dining room and carried the Jerusalem cherry out to Tillytuck,
uncorking the vials of her wrath.

"Take this THING out av the house immajetly if not sooner, Josiah
Tillytuck.  It's done enough harm already and now, wid what's
ixpicted upstairs, I'm not having it here one minute longer."

Tillytuck obeyed humbly.  What was the use of being peevish with
the women?

A strange quiet fell over Silver Bush . . . an expectant quiet.
The supper dishes were washed and put away and Judy and Pat and
Cuddles sat down before the kitchen fire to wait . . . and eat
russet apples in place of their forgotten supper.  Their
irrepressible gaiety was beginning to bubble up in spite of
everything.  After all, it WAS something to get a good laugh.

Tillytuck was smoking in his corner with Just Dog at his feet.
McGinty was as near Pat as he could get and Bold-and-Bad and
Squedunk ventured downstairs.  Dad and Cousin Nicholas were raking
over clan history in the Little Parlour.  Sid was reading a murder
mystery in the dining-room.  Things seemed quite normal again . . .
were it not for muted sounds overhead and the occasional visits of
the white-capped nurse to the kitchen.

"Oh, oh, what a day!" sighed Judy.

"It's been dreadful," assented Pat, "but it will be a story to
laugh at some day.  That is why things don't always go smoothly I
suppose.  There'd be no interesting history.  I only wish Hilary
had been here to-day.  I must write him a full account of it.  What
a sight I must have been, drowned in soup and dogs!  Well, eight of
our good soup plates go to the dump and the slim chair is done for
. . . and we'll have no damson preserves till next fall . . . but
after all, that's all the real damage."

"I'm hoping it may be," said Judy, with an ear cocked ceilingward.
"What did ye do wid yer cherry, Tillytuck?  If ye put it in the
granary the place'll burn down to-night."

"I hove it into the pig-pen," said Tillytuck sourly.

"Oh, oh, God hilp the poor pigs thin," retorted Judy.

"I'll never forget Aunt Frances' face," giggled Cuddles.

"Oh, oh, Aunt Frances, is it?  Niver be minding her, Cuddles dear.
Things have happened at the Bay Shore, too.  Don't I be minding one
time I was over there hilping them out at a big time and whin yer
Aunt Frances was jist in the act av setting a big bowl of red
currant preserves on the table she did be giving the awfullest yell
ye iver heard and falling over backward wid the bowl.  Talk av
soup!  She did be looking as if she was lying murdered in her
blood.  At first ivery one thought she'd had a fit.  But whin they
come to find out a wee divil av a b'y had slipped down under the
table and grabbed holt av her leg.  Oh, oh, minny's the time I've
laughed over it.  Her dress was clane ruint, and her timper . . .
Pasty darlint!"

"Judy . . . What is it?"

"Oh, oh, nothing much," said Judy in a despairing tone.  "Only I
niver rimimbered to put me dress-up dress on after all!  It wint
clare out av me head after the dog-fight . . . and me puddling
round afore all the company in me old drugget."

"Never mind, Judy," comforted Pat, seeing Judy was really upset.
"Nobody would notice it.  And you might have got spots on it and
then what about Castle McDermott?"

"Yer Aunt Edith wud be thinking I'd nothing but drugget to wear,"
groaned Judy.  "Though she hadn't got all the basting thrids out of
her own dress, if ye noticed.  It's meself isn't used to dog-fights
in me kitchen" . . . with a malevolent glance at Tillytuck.  "It's
minny a year since I saw one . . . the last was in South Glin
church all av tin years ago.  Oh, oh, that was a tommyshaw!  Billy
Gardiner always brought his dog to church.  It was be way av being
winked at for iverybody knew poor Billy was only half there, and
they did be setting in a back pew, the dog behaving himself fine,
though he did be giving a tarrible howl whin a lady visitor from
town got up one day to sing a solo.  Sure, nobody blamed the dog.
But this day I'm telling ye av, another dog wandered in, the door
being open, and Billy's dog wint for him.  The strange dog flew up
the aisle wid Billy's dog after him.  He was caught jist under the
pulpit!  Oh, oh!"  Judy rocked with laughter at the recollection,
forgetful of her unworn splendors.

"What did they do, Judy?"

"Do, is it?  Elder Jimmy Gardiner and Elder Tom Robinson aich
grabbed a dog and carried it out be the scruff av the neck.
Picture to yersilves, girls dear . . . a solemn ould elder wid a
long beard and a most unchristian ixpression walking down the
aisle, one on one side av the church and one on the other, houlding
a dog at arm's length."

"Ah," said Tillytuck, "I was in the church that day.  I remember it
well."

This was too much for Judy.  She got up and went into the pantry.
Sid came out to say that Cousin Nicholas wished to go to bed and
wanted a hot water bottle to take with him.  Pat convoyed him to
the spare room.  Tillytuck, realising that he was out of favour,
went off to the granary.

Pat had just come down when there was a knock at the door.  Who on
earth could it be at this time of night?  Cuddles opened it . . .
and in out of the starless dripping night stepped Joe!  Captain
Joe, tall and bronzed and changed, after years of typhoons on China
seas, but unmistakably Joe.

"Flew here," said Joe laconically.  "Flew from Halifax.  Got into
Charlottetown at dusk and hired a motor to bring me out.  Thought
I'd make it in time for supper anyhow.  Everything happened to
that car that could happen . . . and finally a broken axle.
Nevertheless, here I am . . . and why are you all up as late and
looking so solemn?"

Pat told him.  Joe whistled.

"Not little Winnie!  Why, I always think of her as a kid herself.
What a night for the stork to fly!  Anything in the pantry, Judy?"

His old grin robbed the question of insult.  Joe KNEW there would
be something in the pantry.  Judy had a whole turkey stowed away,
as well as the pot of soup.  By the time mother had come down and
hugged Joe and hurried anxiously back upstairs Judy had another
table spread and they all sat down to it, even forgiven Tillytuck,
whom Cuddles haled in from the granary.

"Ah, this is worth coming home for," said Joe.  "Cuddles, you're
almost grown up.  Any beau yet, Pat?"

"Oh, oh, ye'd better be asking her that," said Judy.  "Don't ye
think it's time we had another widding at Silver Bush?  She snubbed
Elmer Moody last wake so bad he wint off vowing he'd niver set foot
in Silver Bush agin."

"He breathes through his mouth," said Pat airily.

"Listen at her.  Some fault to find wid ivery one av the poor b'ys.
And what about yersilf, Joe?  Do ye be coming home to find a wife?"

Joe blushed surprisingly.  Pat only half liked it.  She had heard
rumours of several girls Captain Joe had been writing to
occasionally.  None of them were quite good enough for Joe.  But it
was the old story . . . change . . . change.  Pat hated change so.
And little, cool, unexpected breaths of it were always blowing
across everything, even the jolliest of times, bringing a chill of
foreboding.

"And you're not tattooed after all, Joe," said Cuddles, half
disappointedly.

"Only my hands," said Joe, displaying a blue anchor on one and his
own initials on the other.

"Will you tattoo mine on mine?" asked Cuddles eagerly.

Before Joe could answer an indignant old man suddenly erupted into
the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing gown.  It was Cousin Nicholas
and Cousin Nicholas was distinctly in a temper.

"Cats!" he snarled.  "Cats!  I had just fallen into a refreshing
slumber when a huge cat jumped on my stomach . . . on my stomach,
mark you.  I detest cats."

"It . . . must have been Bold-and-Bad," gasped Pat.  "He does so
love to get into the spare room bed.  I'm so sorry, Cousin
Nicholas . . ."

"Sorry, miss!  I never can get to sleep again after I am once
wakened up.  Will your sorrow cure that?  I came down to ask you to
find that cat and secure him.  _I_ don't know where the beast is
. . . probably under the bed, plotting more devilment."

"Peevish . . . very peevish," muttered Tillytuck quite audibly.
Cuddles meowed and Cousin Nicholas glared at her.

"The manners of Silver Bush are not what they were in my day," he
said crushingly.  "I had a very hard time to get to sleep at all.
There was too much going and coming upstairs.  Is anybody sick?"

"Yes . . . but it don't be catching," said Judy reassuringly.

Pat, trying not to laugh, hurried upstairs and discovered Bold-and-
Bad crouching in the corner of the hall, evidently trying to figure
out how many lives he had left.  For once in his life Bold-and-Bad
was cowed.  Pat carried him down and shut him up in the back porch,
not without a pat or two . . . for she was not overly attracted to
Cousin Nicholas.

That irate gentleman was finally persuaded to go back to bed.
Evidently some idea of what was going on had filtered through his
aged brain, for, as Pat assisted his somewhat shaky steps up the
stairs, he whispered,

"Mebbe I shouldn't mention it to a young girl like you . . . but is
it a baby?"

Pat nodded.

"Ah, then," said Cousin Nicholas, peering suspiciously about him,
"you'd better watch that cat.  Cats suck babies' breaths."

"What an opinion our Cousin Nicholas will have of Silver Bush,"
said Pat, half mournfully, half laughingly, when she returned to
the kitchen.  "Even our cats and dogs can't behave.  And you,
Cuddles . . . I'm ashamed of you.  Whatever made you meow at him?"

"I wasn't meowing at HIM," said Cuddles gravely.  "I was just
meowing."

"Oh, oh, ye naden't be worrying over what ould Nicholas Gardiner
thinks av our animals," sniffed Judy.  "I wasn't saying innything
before for he's your cousin and whin all is said and done blood do
be thicker than water.  But did ye iver hear how me fine Nicholas
got his start in life?  Whin his liddle baby brother died ould
Nicholas . . . only he was jist eliven thin . . . earned fifty
cents be letting all the neighbourhood children in to see the wee
dead body in the casket for a cint apace.  That did be the
foundation av HIS fortunes.  He turned that fifty cints over and
over, it growing wid ivery turn, and niver a bad spec did he make."

"Judy, is that really true?  I mean . . . haven't you mixed up
Cousin Nicholas with some one else?"

"Niver a bit av it.  The Gardiners don't all be angels, me jewel.
Sure and that story was laughed over in the clan for years.  Aven
his mother laughed wid the bist av thim.  She was a Bowman and he
got his quare ways from her.  So he's more to be pitied than
laughed at."

"Yes, indeed," agreed Pat.  "Think of never knowing the delight of
loving a nice, prowly, velvety cat."

"He's awfully rich though, isn't he?" said Cuddles.

"Oh, oh, wid one kind av riches, Cuddles darlint.  But it's better
to be poor and fale rich than to be rich and fale poor.  Hark!"

Judy suddenly held up her hand.

"What's that?"

"Sounds like a cat on the porch roof," said Sid.

Pat dashed upstairs, returning in a few minutes flushed with
excitement.

"Come here, AUNT Cuddles," she laughed.


8


Joe and Sid and dad went to bed.  Tillytuck, mildly remarking that
he had had enough passionate scenes for one day, betook himself to
the granary.  But Pat and Cuddles and Judy decided to make a night
of it.  It was three now.  They sat around the fire and lived over
that fateful Christmas Day.  They roared with laughter over the
look of Cousin Nicholas.

"Sure and he naden't have been making such a fuss over a poor cat,"
said Judy.  "Well do I remimber what happened to a man in
Silverbridge years ago.  He jumped into his bid one night and found
a dead man atwane the shates."

"Judy!"

"I'm telling ye.  It was his own brither but if Tillytuck was here
he'd be saying he was the dead man.  And now let's be having
another liddle bite.  I'm faling as if I hadn't had a dacent male
for wakes, what wid dog-fights and ould cousins and people flying
like birds.  It's thankful I am that I frog-marched me Tillytuck
out wid that Jerusalem cherry afore Joe did be starting from
Halyfax."

"To think that mother is a grandmother and we're aunts," said
Cuddles.  "It makes me feel awfully old.  I'm glad it's a girl.
You can dress them so cute.  They're going to name it Mary Laura
Patricia after its two grandmothers and call it Mary.  Frank put
the Patricia in for you, Pat, because he said if it hadn't been for
you that child would never have been born.  What did he mean?"

"Just some of his nonsense.  He persists in thinking I gave up a
career so that Winnie could get married.  I'm glad they're calling
it mother's name.  But I always think a second name seems woeful
and reproachful because it is never mentioned often enough to give
it personality.  As for a third name, it's nothing but a ghost."

"Tillytuck was really quite excited over it, wasn't he?"

"Can you imagine Tillytuck ever being a baby?" said Pat dreamily.

"Oh, oh, he was, and mebbe somebody's pride and joy," sighed Judy
sentimentally.  "It do be tarrible what we come to wid the years.
Sure and another Christmas is over and we can't be denying it was
merry in spots."

And then it was morning.  The rain was over; the whole world was
soaked and sodden but in the east was a primrose brightening and
soon the Hill of the Mist was like a bare, brown breast in the pale
early sunshine.  The house, after all the revel and excitement, had
a dishevelled, cynical, ashamed look.  Pat longed to fall upon it
and restore it to serenity and self-respect.

Winnie, white and sweet, was asking them with her pretty laugh what
they thought of her little surprise party.  Sid was declaring to
indignant Cuddles that the baby had a face like a monkey.  Mother
was played out and condemned to a day in bed.  And Judy stole out
to see if the pigs had survived the Jerusalem cherry.


9


"Oh, oh, I do be tasting spring to-day," said Judy one early May
morning.  It had been a long cold winter, though a pleasant one
socially, with dances and doings galore.  They had two dances at
Silver Bush for Joe . . . one the week after he came home and one
on the night before he went away again.  Tillytuck had been the
fiddler on both occasions and Cuddles had danced several sets and
thought she was nearly grown up.  It was a family joke that Cuddles
had cut Pat out in the good graces of Ned Avery and had been asked
to go with him to a dance at South Glen.  But mother would not
allow this.  Cuddles, she said, was far too young.  Cuddles was
peeved.

"It seems to me you're always too young or too old to do anything
you like in this world," she said scornfully.  "And you won't let
Joe tattoo my initials on my arm.  It would be SUCH a distinction.
Nobody in school is tattooed ANYWHERE.  Trix Binnie would just be
wild with envy."

"Oh, oh, since whin have the Gardiners taken to caring what a
Binnie thought av innything?" sniffed Judy.

Spring was late in coming that year.  Judy had a saying that "it
wudn't be spring till the snow on the Hill av the Mist melted and
the snow on the Hill av the Mist wudn't melt till spring."  There
were fitful promises of it . . . sudden lovely days followed by
bitter east winds and grey ghost mists, or icy north-west winds and
frosts.  But on this particular day it did seem as if it had really
come to stay.  It was a warm day of entrancing gleams and glooms.
Once a silver shower drifted low over the Hill of the Mist . . .
over the Long House . . . over the Field of the Pool--over the
silver bush . . . and away down to the gulf.  Then the day made up
its mind to be sunny.  The distances were hung with pale blue hazes
and there was an emerald mist on the trees everywhere.  The world
was sweet and the Pool was a great sapphire.  Cuddles found some
white and purple violets down by the singing waters of Jordan and
young ferns were uncoiling along the edge of the birch grove.  Pat
discovered that the little clump of poet's narcissus on the lawn
was peeping above ground.  It gave her a pang to remember that she
had got it from Bets . . . Bets who had loved the springs so but no
longer answered to their call.  Pat looked wistfully up the hill to
the Long House . . . the Long Lonely House once more, for the
people who had moved into it when the Wilcoxes went away had gone
again and the house was untenanted, as it had been when Pat was a
child and used to wish its windows could be lighted up at night
like other houses.  Now she no longer felt that way about it,
though she still felt a thrill of pleasure when the sunset flame
kindled its western windows into a fleeting semblance of life and
colour, and still shivered when it looked cold and desolate on
moonlit winter nights.  She resented the thought of any one living
there when Bets, sweet, beloved Bets, had gone, never to return.
When it was empty she could pretend Bets was still there and would
come running down the hill, as in the old fair and unforgotten
days, on some of these spring evenings that seemed able to call
anything out of the grave.

When Judy "tasted" spring it was time to begin house-cleaning and
as Tillytuck was away for the day on "the other farm" as the "old
Adams place" was now called, Judy and Pat took the opportunity to
clean the granary chamber . . . a task which Judy performed rather
viciously, for Tillytuck was temporarily out of favour with her,
partly because Just Dog had killed three of her chickens the day
before and chewed up one leg of Siddy's khaki pants, and partly
because . . .

"He did be coming home drunk agin last night and slipt in the
stable."

Judy's "agin" seemed to imply that Tillytuck came home drunk
frequently.  As a matter of fact this was only his second offence
and Tillytuck was such an excellent worker that Long Alec winked at
his very occasional weakness.

"Not that he'd be giving in he was tight . . . Oh, no.  He wud only
say the moon seemed a bit unsteady-like.  And he was after warning
me not to be getting inny notion av marrying into me head aven if
he did be liking to talk to me.  Me!  But wud it be inny use
getting mad wid the likes av him?  It ann'ys him more to be
laughing at him.  He did be trying to get up the granary stips . . .
me watching him through the liddle round windy and having me own
fun . . . but he cudn't trust his legs, so he paraded to the
stable, walking very stiff and pompous.  Oh, oh, the dear knows
what we'll be finding in his din . . . a goat's nest, I wudn't be
wondering."

"Tillytuck says he's going to get a radio," said Cuddles, who was
not in school, as it was Saturday.

"Oh, oh, a radio, is it?  I'm relaved to hear it.  Mebbe if he gets
one he won't be rading such trash as this."  Judy indignantly held
up a book she had discovered on Tillytuck's table.  "Do ye be
seeing it . . . The Mistakes av Moses.  It do be a rank infidel
book he borryed off ould Roger Madison av Silverbridge and whin I
rated him for rading it he sez, 'I like to see both sides av a
question,' sez he.  Him and his curiosity!"

Judy tossed the offending volume out of the window into the pig-pen
and ostentatiously washed her hands.

"You can't stick Tillytuck on the catechism though," said Pat.
"And he really is a great hand to read his Bible."

"But he has his doubts about the story of Jonah and the whale,"
said Cuddles.  "He told me so."

"Does he be talking to children av such things?"  Judy was
horrified.  "It's telling him me opinion av that I'll be.  Don't ye
be hading him, Cuddles.  We've niver hild wid infidelity at Silver
Bush and if Moses did be making a mistake or two it's me considered
opinion that he knew more about things in gineral than Josiah
Tillytuck and ould Roger Madison put together."

"You're just a bit peeved with Tillytuck because he tried to cap
your stories," suggested Cuddles slyly.  For there had been quite a
scene in the kitchen two evenings previously when Judy had told a
tale of some lady on the south side who put rat poison by mistake
for baking powder in the family pancakes and Tillytuck had said he
had eaten one of them.

"It isn't a chanct I do be having wid Tillytuck," said Judy
passionately.  "I stick to the truth but he do be making things up
as he goes along."

"But you made candy for him afterwards, Judy."

"Oh, oh, so I did," admitted Judy with a deprecating grin.  "He
gets round a body somehow wid his palaver.  There do be times whin
he cud wheedle the legs off an iron pot.  Niver be laughing at an
ould woman, Cuddles dear.  Tillytuck and I do be understanding each
other rale well, for all av our tiffs.  If he likes to think I'm
dying about him he's welcome to it.  He hasn't minny pleasures.
And now we've finished the chamber so we'll . . ."

"The pigs are in the graveyard, Judy," cried Cuddles.

"I'll pig thim," ejaculated Judy viciously as she whirled down the
granary stairs in horror.  But after all cud ye be blaming the poor
pigs?  They had niver been thimsilves since they et the Jeruselem
cherry.

In the afternoon they tackled the garret.  Pat always loved
cleaning in general and the garret in particular.  It was
delightful to make Silver Bush as clean and sweet as the spring
. . . a new curtain here . . . a new wall-paper there . . . a spot
of paint where it would do most good.  Little changes that didn't
hurt . . . much.  Though Pat was always sorry for the old wall-
papers and missed them.

When you came to the garret you always found so many things you had
almost forgotten and all the family ghosts got a good rummaging.

"Sure, housecleaning and diggin' a well do be the only two things I
know av that ye begin at the top and work down wid," said Judy.
"Well, the garret do be done and that do be making the fortieth
time I've been at the cleaning av it.  Forty-one years this very
May, Pasty dear, since I tuk up wid Silver Bush, hoping to put the
summer in if Long Alec's mother was suited wid me . . . and here I
do be still."

"And will be for forty more years I hope," said Pat with a hug.
"But we haven't quite finished, Judy.  I want to see what's in that
old black chest in the corner.  It hasn't been turned out properly
for years."

"Oh, oh, there's nothing much there but the relics av ould
dacency," said Judy.

"We really should examine it.  The moths may have got into it."

"Sure and it's always aisy to find an excuse for what ye want to
do," said Judy slyly.  "But we'll ransack it if ye wait till I get
supper.  We'll come up here in the dim and see what's in it."

Accordingly, after supper Pat betook herself to the garret, which
was growing shadowy, although the outside world was still in the
glow of sunset.  It was a spring sunset . . . pale golds and soft
pinks and ethereal apple greens shading up to silvery blue over the
birches.  Pat ached with the loveliness of it, being one of those


     "who feel the thrill
      Of beauty like a pang."


Violet mists were veiling the distant hills.  The little green-
skirted maples over at Swallowfield were dancing girls with the
dark spruces behind them, like grim, old-maid duennas.  Sid had
ploughed the Mince Pie field that day and it lay in beautiful, red,
even furrows.  From the Field of the Pool there sounded the dreamy
trill of a few frogs through the brooding spring evening and there
was some indefinable glamour over everything.  Things were a little
"queer" as they had sometimes seemed in childhood on certain
evenings.

"This makes me think of the night you told me Cuddles was coming,"
she said to Judy, who came up the stairs, panting a little.  "Oh,
Judy dear, just look at that sunset."

"Innything spacial about it?" asked Judy a littl