Morning brought the penetrating chill of the Northern December, the layers of wood-smoke, the dusty gray blue of the tamarisks, the domes of ruined tombs, and all the smell of the white Northern plains, as the mail-train ran on to the mile-long Sutlej Bridge.  William, wrapped in a poshteen—­silk-embroidered sheepskin jacket trimmed with rough astrakhan—­looked out with moist eyes and nostrils that dilated joyously.  The South of pagodas and palm-trees, the over-populated Hindu South, was done with.  Here was the land she knew and loved, and before her lay the good life she understood, among folk of her own caste and mind.

They were picking them up at almost every station now—­men and women coming in for the Christmas Week, with racquets, with bundles of polo-sticks, with dear and bruised cricket-bats, with fox-terriers and saddles.  The greater part of them wore jackets like William’s, for the Northern cold is as little to be trifled with as the Northern heat.  And William was among them and of them, her hands deep in her pockets, her collar turned up over her ears, stamping her feet on the platforms as she walked up and down to get warm, visiting from carriage to carriage, and everywhere being congratulated.  Scott was with the bachelors at the far end of the train, where they chaffed him mercilessly about feeding babies and milking goats; but from time to time he would stroll up to William’s window, and murmur:  ‘Good enough, isn’t it?’ and William would answer, with sighs of pure delight:  ‘Good enough, indeed.’  The large open names of the home towns were good to listen to.  Umballa, Ludianah, Phillour, Jullundur, they rang like the coming marriage-bells in her ears, and William felt deeply and truly sorry for all strangers and outsiders—­visitors, tourists, and those fresh-caught for the service of the country.

It was a glorious return, and when the bachelors gave the Christmas ball, William was, unofficially, you might say, the chief and honoured guest among the stewards, who could make things very pleasant for their friends.  She and Scott danced nearly all the dances together, and sat out the rest in the big dark gallery overlooking the superb teak floor, where the uniforms blazed, and the spurs clinked, and the new frocks and four hundred dancers went round and round till the draped flags on the pillars flapped and bellied to the whirl of it.

About midnight half a dozen men who did not care for dancing came over from the Club to play ‘Waits,’ and—­that was a surprise the stewards had arranged—­before any one knew what had happened, the band stopped, and hidden voices broke into ‘Good King Wenceslaus,’ and William in the gallery hummed and beat time with her foot: 

        Mark my footsteps well, my page,
          Tread thou in them boldly,
        Thou shalt feel the winter’s rage
          Freeze thy blood less coldly!

’Oh, I hope they are going to give us another!  Isn’t it pretty, coming out of the dark in that way?  Look—­look down.  There’s Mrs. Gregory wiping her eyes!’