Tea-time came, and no George took his accustomed seat, as near his mother’s apron-strings as possible. On the door being opened, however, which led into the passage between the sitting-room and kitchen, his voice was heard in pretty loud and determined tones, and Vi’let expostulating with him; which somewhat allayed madam’s fears that her pet had run away and jumped into the river, or had cried himself sick. The tea-things were cleared away, but he did not appear. Amy, who had presided at the tea-table, went to the window and looked out, thinking her uncle had been almost too hard upon poor George. It was near the close of a fine day in mid-winter. The sun was just setting, and the whole atmosphere appeared kindled into one bright red flame, giving a rosy tint to the new-fallen snow, which lay deep upon the ground, smooth and undrifted, and covering every roof; while the grotesque figures of the long icicles which hung from the eaves were glittering in the ruddy light. The moon’s broad disk was full in view in the east, but as yet her rays of silver were lost in the brighter glow of twilight. Amy thought how pleasant a sleigh-ride would be, if the culprit could be taken into favor, and they could all go. The hour passed without its accustomed cheerfulness to the family within. Mr. Fayerweather paced the room, with his hands clasped behind him, as usual, when his mind was not perfectly at ease. Madam had taken her knitting, and was seated at one side of the fire-place, occasionally giving a gentle sigh; while little John counted his marbles into her lap, for want of a more convenient place, and missing his brother very much, but not venturing to ask why he did not come in. The room was warm from the fire of hickory which had blazed in the wide chimney all day, but which was now reduced to a mass of burning coals covered with white ashes. This was the hour in which it was customary for Scipio, preceded by Vi’let as pioneer, to make his appearance with a log as big as he could lug, to lay the foundation of the fire for the next day. After some altercation having been heard in the passage, Vi’let entered alone with a more portentous scowl than usual, and surveying Mr. Fayerweather over her spectacles, muttered something which sounded marvelously like “an old Turk,” and “folks being in danger of their lives;” then making a dive into the coals with her huge kitchen-shovel, she gave a deep sigh, which ended in a grunt, and continued her grumbling, her last audible words being “a poor, broken-hearted family.” All this passed unheeded by them, as “only pretty Fanny’s way.” No Scipio followed; but in his stead, in came Peter, with his milled cap, his striped homespun and tow apron, carrying a log larger than usual; on seeing which, Mr. Fayerweather, whose nerves were still vibrating, broke out in wrath, as the log fell into the hollow made to receive it by Vi’let, throwing the coals and ashes far out over the hearth.