On the lake.

On the first morning of November the summit of the Peak was draped in white, and a slight sprinkling of snow sparkled on the plain.  Frost was hard enough to freeze the duck-pond and the horse-trough.  Winter had begun.  It was very cold; Lucy shivered over her dressing every morning in her little attic chamber, and had just to work to get warm, as Aunt Hepsy permitted no sitting over the stove.  Tom had to turn out of doors at six every morning, and feed a score of cattle before breakfast, and woe betide him if the work was not done up to Uncle Josh’s mark.  Uncle Josh had a vocabulary of his own, from which he selected many an epithet to bestow on Tom!  Sometimes yet the quick temper would fly up, and there would be a war of words; but the lad’s strong striving was beginning to bear its fruit, and he found it daily easier to keep hold of the bridle, as Miss Goldthwaite termed it.  Keziah had been dismissed also, and Lucy’s burden was sometimes more than she could bear.  Miss Hepsy refused to see what others saw—­that the girl was overwrought; and her feelings had been blunted so long, that only a very sharp shock would bring them into use again.  And the time had not come yet.  For more highly favoured young folks than Tom and Lucy Hurst, these frosty days brought innumerable enjoyments in their train—­skating and sleighing by daylight and moonlight, evening parties, and all sorts of frolics.  There were gay times at the Red House, especially when in Christmas week Mr. Robert Keane came home, bringing with him two school-boy cousins from Philadelphia.  Miss Alice Keane called at Thankful Rest on her pony, one morning, to ask Tom and Lucy to a Christmas-eve gathering.  The invitation was curtly declined by Miss Hepsy, and she was dismissed with such scant courtesy that she departed very indignant indeed.

“What a woman that is at Thankful Rest,” she said to Miss Goldthwaite when she called at the parsonage.  “I almost forgot myself, Carrie, and nearly gave her a few rude words.  I am truly sorry for those poor children.”

“Well you may be,” answered Carrie with a sigh, knowing better than Alice what their life was.

Only one half-holiday was vouchsafed to them at Miss Goldthwaite’s earnest entreaty, and they took tea at the parsonage, after which the party went up to the Red House pond to see the skating there.  They were very warmly welcomed—­Minnie, especially, being quite overjoyed to see Lucy again.

“Do you skate, Tom?” asked Miss Keane, coming up breathless after a long run down the lake.

“Yes, Miss Keane.  But I have no skates; they were left at home—­in Newhaven, I mean.”

“Here, Minnie, my pet, run to the house and bring out a couple of pairs.  You will find them in George’s room, I think; and tell Robert I want him on the lake.”

Minnie ran off obediently.  Pretty soon Mr. George Keane and the two cousins appeared round the bend, and Miss Keane introduced the latter to Tom.  They did not take long to become acquainted, and were soon talking quite familiarly.  They stood waiting till Minnie returned, her brother with her, carrying the skates.  He was a tall, slight young man, rather like Miss Keane; and his face looked a trifle stern at first, as hers did, but that wore off when you got to know him.