Ruby yawned.  It is true she had drawn the dimity curtains—­all but a couple of inches.  Through this space she could see the folk busy on the beach below like a swarm of small black insects, and continually augmented by those who, having run off to snatch their Christmas dinner, were returning to the spoil.  Some lined the edge of the breakers, waiting the moment to rush in for a cask or spar that the tide brought within reach; others (among whom she seemed to descry Young Zeb) were clambering out with grapnels along the western rocks; a third large group was gathered in the very centre of the beach, and from the midst of these a blue wreath of smoke began to curl up.  At the same instant she heard the gate click outside, and pulling the curtain wider, saw her father trudging away down the lane.

Mary Jane, glancing up, and seeing her mistress crane forward with curiosity, stole behind and peeped over her shoulder.

“I declare they’m teening a fire!”

“Who gave you leave to bawl in my ear so rudely?  Go back to your reading, this instant.” (A pause.) “Mary Jane, I do believe they’m roastin’ chestnuts.”

“What a clever game!”

“Father said at dinner the tide was bringin’ ’em in by bushels.  Quick! put on your worst bonnet an’ clogs, an’ run down to look.  I must know.  No, I’m not goin’—­the idea!  I wonder at your low notions.  You shall bring me word o’ what’s doin’—­an’ mind you’re back before dark.”

Mary Jane fled precipitately, lest the order should be revoked.  Five minutes later, Ruby heard the small gate click again, and with a sigh saw the girl’s rotund figure waddling down the lane.  Then she picked up the book and strove to bury herself in the woes of Wilhelmina, but still with frequent glances out of window.  Twice the book dropped off her lap; twice she picked it up and laboriously found the page again.  Then she gave it up, and descended to the back door, to see if anyone were about who might give her news.  But the town-place was deserted by all save the ducks, the old white sow, and a melancholy crew of cocks and hens huddled under the dripping eaves of the cow-house.  Returning to her room, she settled down on the window-seat, and watched the blaze of the bonfire increase as the short day faded.

The grey became black.  It was six o’clock, and neither her father nor Mary Jane had returned.  Seven o’clock struck from the tall clock in the kitchen, and was echoed ten minutes after by the Dutch clock in the parlour below.  The sound whirred up through the planching twice as loud as usual.  It was shameful to be left alone like this, to be robbed, murdered, goodness knew what.  The bonfire began to die out, but every now and then a circle of small black figures would join hands and dance round it, scattering wildly after a moment or two.  In a lull of the wind she caught the faint sound of shouts and singing, and this determined her.