In the late afternoon of the 24th, when dust was rising under the hazel brake, I was walking with Lettie. All among the mesh of twigs overhead was tangled a dark red sky. The boles of the trees grew denser—almost blue. Tramping down the riding we met two boys, fifteen or sixteen years old. Their clothes were largely patched with tough cotton moleskin; scarves were knotted round their throats, and in their pockets rolled tin bottles full of tea, and the white knobs of their knotted snap-bags. “Why!” said Lettie. “Are you going to work on Christmas eve?” “It looks like it, don’t it?” said the elder. “And what time will you be coming back?” “About ’alf past töw.” “Christmas morning!” “You’ll be able to look out for the herald Angels and the Star,” said I. “They’d think we was two dirty little uns,” said the younger lad, laughing. “They’ll ’appen ’a done before we get up ter th’ top,” added the elder boy— “an’ they’ll none venture down th’ shaft.” “If they did,” put in the other, “You’d ha’e ter bath ’em after. I’d gi’e ’em a bit o’ my pasty.” “Come on,” said the elder sulkily. They tramped off, slurring their heavy boots. “Merry Christmas!” I called after them. “In th’ mornin’,” replied the elder. “Same to you,” said the younger, and he began to sing with a tinge of bravado. “In the fields with their flocks abiding. They lay on the dewy ground——” “Fancy,” said Lettie, “those boys are working for me!” We were all going to the party at Highclose. I happened to go into the kitchen about half past seven. The lamp was turned low, and Rebecca sat in the shadows. On the table, in the light of the lamp, I saw a glass vase with five or six very beautiful Christmas roses. “Hullo, Becka, who’s sent you these?” said I. “They’re not sent,” replied Rebecca from the depth of the shadow, with suspicion of tears in her voice. “Why! I never saw them in the garden.” “Perhaps not. But I’ve watched them these three weeks, and kept them under glass.” “For Christmas? They are beauties. I thought some one must have sent them to you.” “It’s little as ’as ever been sent me,” replied Rebecca, “an’ less as will be.” “Why—what’s the matter?” “Nothing. Who’m I, to have anything the matter! Nobody—nor ever was, nor ever will be. And I’m getting old as well.” “Something’s upset you, Becky.” “What does it matter if it has? What are my feelings? A bunch o’ fal-de-rol flowers as a gardener clips off wi’ never a thought is preferred before mine as I’ve fettled after this three-week. I can sit at home to keep my flowers company—nobody wants ’em.” I remembered that Lettie was wearing hot-house flowers; she was excited and full of the idea of the party at Highclose; I could imagine her quick “Oh no thank you, Rebecca. I have had a spray sent to me——” “Never mind, Becky,” said I, “she is excited to-night.” “An’ I’m easy forgotten.” “So are we all, Becky—tant mieux.”