Bess did not answer, and we drove back in silence. It was very still along the country lanes, save for the tinkling of the joyous bells. Behind us followed our pack, Mouse panting somewhat, for she had fed at luncheon time, not wisely, but too well; but Tramp and Tartar scampered gaily after us. The whole country seemed enveloped in a white winding-sheet, and the sunlight was dying out of the west. A soft white mist was stealing up over all, but the voice of death was gentle, calm, almost sweet, across the silent world. Cottages looked out by their windows, blinking, and appeared almost as white as the snow beneath them. Old Bluebell seemed to know that her trot to the Abbey was her last journey, and went with a good will. We passed the new hospital, dashed down Sheinton Street, and so into the Italian gates by the old Watch Tower of the abbot's, beyond the old Bull Ring where, through many centuries, bulls were baited by dogs. [Sidenote: "I WANT TO BE HAPPY"] As we drew up before the door, Bess exclaimed, regretfully-- "Oh, mama, why has it all stopped? I should like driving in a sledge to go on for ever and ever." I kissed the little maid, and we went into tea. Bess hardly spoke, and I thought her wearied by the excitement of the drive, but that night, when I went up to see her in bed, she called out-- "Mamsie, mamsie, come quite close. A secret." So I sat down on the little bed, and the little arms went round my neck. "Mama, I have looked out a heap--a heap of toys--to send off to poor children. My new doll Sabrina, my blue pig, my little box of tea things, the new Noah's Ark, but Nana will not pack them up. She says they're too good for poor children. Isn't she wicked, for I want to give them all, and to be happy--happy as you mean me to be." CHAPTER II FEBRUARY "The Hag is astride This night for to ride, The devil and she together, Through thick and through thin, Now out, and now in, Though ne'er so foule be the weather." HERRICK'S _Hesperides_. Some weeks had passed, and I had been away from home. Rain had fallen, and the snow had vanished like a dream--the first dawn of spring had come. Not spring as we know her in the South of France or in Southern Italy--gorgeous, gay, debonair--but shy, coy, and timid. The spring of the North is like a maiden of the hills, timid and reserved, yet infinitely attractive, what our French friends would call "une sensitive."