The mother sat by the hearth, where was a big bath half full of soapy water, and at her feet, warming his bare legs at the fire, was David, who had just been bathed. The mother was gently rubbing his fine fair hair into a cloud. Mollie was combing out her brown curls, sitting by her father, who, in the fire-seat, was reading aloud in a hearty voice, with quaint precision. At the table sat Emily and George: she was quickly picking over a pile of little yellow raisins, and he, slowly, with his head sunk, was stoning the large raisins. David kept reaching forward to play with the sleepy cat—interrupting his mother’s rubbing. There was no sound but the voice of the father, full of zest; I am afraid they were not all listening carefully. I clicked the latch and entered. “Lettie!” exclaimed George. “Cyril!” cried Emily. “Cyril, ’ooray!” shouted David. “Hullo, Cyril!” said Mollie. Six large brown eyes, round with surprise, welcomed me. They overwhelmed me with questions, and made much of us. At length they were settled and quiet again. “Yes, I am a stranger,” said Lettie, who had taken off her hat and furs and coat. “But you do not expect me often, do you? I may come at times, eh?” “We are only too glad,” replied the mother. “Nothing all day long but the sound of the sluice—and mists, and rotten leaves. I am thankful to hear a fresh voice.” “Is Cyril really better, Lettie?” asked Emily softly. “He’s a spoiled boy—I believe he keeps a little bit ill so that we can cade him. Let me help you—let me peel the apples—yes, yes—I will.” She went to the table, and occupied one side with her apple-peeling. George had not spoken to her. So she said: “I won’t help you—George, because I don’t like to feel my fingers so sticky, and because I love to see you so domesticated.” “You’ll enjoy the sight a long time, then, for these things are numberless.” “You should eat one now and then—I always do.” “If I ate one I should eat the lot.” “Then you may give me your one.” He passed her a handful without speaking. “That is too many, your mother is looking. Let me just finish this apple. There, I’ve not broken the peel!” She stood up, holding up a long curling strip of peel. “How many times must I swing it, Mrs. Saxton?” “Three times—but it’s not All Hallows’ Eve.” “Never mind! Look!——” she carefully swung the long band of green peel over her head three times, letting it fall the third. The cat pounced on it, but Mollie swept him off again. “What is it?” cried Lettie, blushing. “G,” said the father, winking and laughing—the mother looked daggers at him. “It isn’t nothink,” said David naïvely, forgetting his confusion at being in the presence of a lady in his shirt. Mollie remarked in her cool way: “It might be a ‘hess’—if you couldn’t write.” “Or an ‘L’,” I added. Lettie looked over at me imperiously, and I was angry. “What do you say, Emily?” she asked. “Nay,” said Emily, “It’s only you can see the right letter.”