“I do often mind me o’ them days,” Mrs. Stickly resumed. “Dear, yes! I do often think I hear the little voices and the little feet, and see father—that’s Stickly—a-liftin’ up the youngest un to look at the plate. ’Tis very near like a book to me, that plate. I mid ha’ wrote in it all the joys and sorrows o’ my life—what I’ve a-had and what I’ve a-lost—I do mind ’em all when I look at it. Mary, the only maid I had, did cut her weddin’ cake on this here plate—she was a vitty bride—but she died wi’ her first baby; an’ John did ’list for a soldier, and were killed out abroad, and James and ’Lias died o’ the fever when they was quite little. E—es, I did lose ’em all; me and Stickly was a-left alone by the fire in the end, and now there be nobody but I. They be all a-gone before I to the New House. I’ll jine ’em there some day, Mrs. Andrews.”
And then Mrs. Andrews would agree and condole, and begin to think it was time for her to move; and Tommy and Walter would have their mufflers tied round their necks, and the party would start off homewards, while Mrs. Stickly, with a sigh and a smile, would restore the rosy plate to its place.
The little house at the hill-foot occupied, as has been said, a somewhat solitary position, being a mile from any other habitation; but it never seemed to occur to any one that in the case of illness or accident its owner would find herself in a somewhat sorry plight.
When in the middle of a bright, frosty, wintry night, therefore, Mrs. Andrews was awakened by a loud knocking at her door and piteous cries for help, and when, on throwing open her casement and leaning out, she recognised the small figure standing on her threshold as Mrs. Stickly, her astonishment was mingled with some measure of indignation.
“Goodness gracious, Mrs. Stickly, whatever brings you here at this time o’ night?—I be frightened out o’ my wits! Has anything happened?”
“What in the world be amiss?” inquired the deep tones of Mr. Andrews from under the bed-clothes.
“Oh, come down, come down, good folks, for pity’s sake!” wailed the nocturnal visitor; “my house be a-fire—’tis a mercy I weren’t burnt in my bed!”
“Your house a-fire!” gasped Mrs. Andrews in genuine concern; and thereupon ensued the hasty thud of Mr. Andrews’ bare feet upon the floor. “I’ll let you in in a minute! Dear heart alive! what a misfortune, to be sure!”