* * * * *

The boys were having their supper in the hall when I arrived home, for, warm as the days are, it grows cool toward night until we are past middle May.

The scraped knees were still knobby with bandages, but the lads were in good spirits, and seemed to have some secret with Martha that involved a deal of whispering and some chuckling.  After the traces of bread and butter were all wiped away, they came hobbling up (for the poor knees were sadly stiff and lame), and wedged themselves, one on each side of me, in the window seat of the den, where I was watching for the smoke of Evan’s train, my signal for going down the road.  Ah, how I always miss the sight of the curling smoke and the little confidential walk in the dark winter days!

There was some mystery afoot, I could see, for Martha hovered about the fireplace, asking if a few sticks wouldn’t temper the night air, to which I readily assented, yet still she did not go, and the boys kept the hands close against their blouse fronts.

Suddenly Ian threw his arms about my neck and bent my head close to his, saying, in his abrupt voice of command, “Barbara must not stay indoors tomorrow and be sad and mend the moles’ stockings.”

“Yes, Barbara must,” I answered firmly, feeling, yet much dreading, the necessity of the coming collision.

“No, she can’t,” said Ian, trying to look stern, but breaking into little twinkling smiles at the mouth corners.  “She can’t, because the moles’ stockings haven’t any more got holes!” and he pulled something from his blouse and spread it in my lap, Richard doing likewise.

There were two stockings mended, fearfully and wonderfully, to be sure, and quite unwearable, but still legally mended.

“I don’t understand,” I said, while the boys, seeing my puzzled expression, clapped their hands and hopped painfully about as well as they were able.

Then Martha Corkle emerged from the background and explained:  “The boys they felt most terrible in their minds, Mrs. Evan, soon after you’d went (their sore knees, I think, also keepin’ them in sight of their doings), and they begged me, Mrs. Evan, wouldn’t I mend the stockings, which I would most cheerfully, only takin’ the same as not to be your idea, mum.  So I says, says I, somebody havin’ to be punished, your ma’s goin’ to do it to take the punishment herself, that is, in lest you do it your own selves instead.  So, says I, I’ll mend one stocking of each if you do the other, Mrs. Evan, and no disrespect intended.

“I borried Effie’s embroidery rings and set the two holes for them and run them in one way, leavin’ them the fillin’ to do, which they have, sittin’ the whole afternoon at it most perseverin’.”

“Richard did his one stitch, but I did mine four stitch; it ate up the hole quicker, and it’s more different,” quoth Ian, waving his stocking, into the knee of which he had managed to introduce a sort of kindergarten weaving pattern.