Possibly it may not be surprising when I state that I thought of the stranger all the way home; my mind was so full of him that the monotonous miles seemed as yards. I recalled his upright bearing, his handsome eyes, his kindly word to Kipper. Was this the hero that every girl of nineteen sees in her dreams? It is a remarkable fact that at dinner I, who usually poured out my budget of small news--such as, how someone had broken Mrs. Hogg's window, the postman's baby had croup, or a party of motorists had stopped to tea at "The Beetle"--never once mentioned my experience, but kept it locked up in my heart; yes, even from Tossie, who brought all her joys and sorrows to me. Behold my first secret! After all how puny and insignificant; nevertheless, I hugged it like a child with her first doll! On Slacklands Flats I had encountered a good-looking stranger--no doubt one of the guns at Myson--who had stared hard, looked after me, and signalled a gay greeting. "Ships that pass in the night"--"a couple who pass at sundown." I must confess that I allowed my mind to dwell on the adventure as I sewed, as I listened to the professor's plays, yes, even in church, when naturally I ought to have been engrossed in holy thoughts and the rector's short, crisp sermon.
Before Christmas my relations departed to Nice. Aunt Mina, who suffered from bronchitis, went in search of a little sun, my cousins in quest of amusement. The Riviera was gay, and they were by all accounts a large and congenial party. Perhaps their consciences may have troubled them with regard to me, for they sent me unusually nice presents--a large box of chocolate, a fan, and a gay parasol. There was not much occasion for these latter at Beke in winter time, but one must not look a gift-horse in the mouth! Our Christmas was profoundly dull, not to say depressing; it was cold work decorating the bleak old church--assisted by Lizzie, the schoolmistress, the landlady of "The Beetle," and many others, including Tossie and her most recent admirer, a smart young "vet" from Newmarket.
As we pricked our frozen hands and made a great holly wreath for the font she said,
"You look awfully down, dear, and I suppose there is no fun going on at 'The Roost' on Christmas Day--no party, eh?"