I remember well the Christmas Eve of 1643, when the call came for Mark; a night very clear and crisp, with the stars making a brave show against the broad moon, and a touch of frost against which we wrapped ourselves warmly before the household sallied down to the great Parc an Wollas orchard above the ford, to bless the apple-trees.  My father led the way as usual with his fowling-piece under his arm, Mark following with another; after them staggered Lizzie Pascoe, the serving maid, with the great bowl of lamb’s wool; Margery followed, I at her side, and the men after us with their wives, each carrying a cake or a roasted apple on a string.  We halted as usual by the bent tree in the centre of the orchard, and there, having hung our offerings on the bough, formed a circle, took hands and chanted, while Lizzie splashed cider against the trunk—­

  “Here’s to thee, old apple-tree
  Whence to bud and whence to blow,
  And whence to bear us apples enow—­
    Hats full, packs full,
    Great bushel sacks full,
  And every one a pocket full—­
  With hurrah! and fire off the gun!”

I remember the moment’s wait on the flint-lock and the flame and roar of my father’s piece, shattering echoes across the dark water and far up the creek where the herons roosted.  And out of the echoes a voice answered—­a man’s voice hailing across the ford.

Mark took a torch, and, running down to the water’s edge, waved it to guide the stranger over.  By-and-by we caught sight of him, a tall trooper on horseback with the moonlight and torchlight flaming together on his steel morion and gorget.  He picked his way carefully to shore and up the bank and reined up his dripping horse in the midst of us with a laugh.

“Hats full, pockets full, eh?  Good-evenin’, naybours, and a merry Christmas, and I’m sure I wish you may get it.  Which of ’ee may happen to be Master Ephr’m Lantine?”

My father announced himself, and the trooper drew out a parchment and handed it.

“‘Tisn’ no proper light here,” said my father, fumbling with the packet, and not caring to own that he could not read.  “Come to the house, honest man, and we’ll talk it over; for thou’lt sleep with us, no doubt?”

“Ay, and drink to your apple-trees too,” the trooper answered very heartily.  So my father led the way and we followed, Margery gripping my hand tight, and the rest talking in loud whispers.  They guessed what the man’s business was.

An hour later, when the ashen faggot had been lit and the cider-drinking and carolling were fairly started in the kitchen, Margery packed me off to bed; and afterwards came and sat beside me for a while, very silent, listening with me to the voices below.

“Where is Mark?” I asked, for I missed his clear tenor.

“In the parlour.  He and father and the soldier are talking there.”

“Is Mark going to fight?”

She bent down, slipped an arm round my nee’ and caught me to her in a sudden breathless hug.