“Not but what I know many a tale,” she reflected. “And, Lord! what a terrible thing it would be if the doctor should lose his son that way. They would bury the little lad in the cathedral, doubtless, for the Harfords, they come of a great family, as old as any in the county. I should go myself to help lay him out--that servant of theirs is a feckless wench. Oh, gracious me! Why, they’re already making his tomb!” and in amaze she looked at the two children, who were putting the last touches to their snow monument. “Lor’ bless my heart, dearies!” exclaimed Mrs. Durdle, “what do you make that corpse-like thing for? Why couldn’t you keep to an honest Jack Frost with a pipe in his mouth?” “Why, Durdle, ’tis Sir John Eliot, the Parliament man. We’re making his monument.” “Well, what can put such an idea into the child’s head as to make a monument to a Parliament man? We’re not going to have no more Parliaments they tell me, and a good job, too. Done without them these many years well enough, says I. Come in now, my dearies. Come and stir the Christmas puddings--here’s nigh upon a week past since ‘Stir-up Sunday.’” The children were always glad of an excuse to visit the kitchen, where Durdle, a cheerful, chatty soul, ever gave them a hearty welcome. They wanted no second bidding, and were soon perched on the table with the huge pudding-crock between them and two strong wooden spoons. “Wish, Hilary; it’s no good stirring unless you wish,” said Gabriel, swinging his legs, while he meditated what gift to ask of fortune. “I wish for a beautiful new puppet at Christmas,” said Hilary, without the smallest hesitation. A flush rose to Gabriel’s forehead; he felt pricked at heart, and was on the point of assuring her that he himself would make that wish true. But the old loathing of puppets died hard. He remained prudently silent. Next came Mrs. Durdle herself with a wish about her valentine in the coming year, which the children thought profoundly uninteresting. What could a widow of thirty have to do with valentines, indeed? “And now, Master Gabriel, for _your_ wish,” said Durdle, as the boy still hesitated. “Yes, Gabriel, yours--be quick!” adjured Hilary. He grasped the spoon and stirred the pudding vigorously, with an odd, far-away look on his intent face. “Well,” asked his companions, “what did you wish?” “Oh, that,” said Gabriel, colouring as he slipped down from the table--“that’s my secret.” And neither Durdle’s cajoling nor Hilary’s earnest entreaties could make him say another word about the matter. Before long, moreover, Hilary was summoned to her mother’s room, and Gabriel ran home through the garden, pausing for one last look at the snow monument by the south walk. “I wish to be like you,” he whispered to the effigy of Sir John Eliot; “I wish to give my life for the country’s freedom.” Then, without a thought of what his wish might involve, he ran cheerfully home along the frosty paths singing a snatch of the old Bosbury carol: