sallows and alders were delicate with shades of orange and mauve; here
and there a sprig of furze lingered in flower, and black flights of
starlings and fieldfares, driven from colder climates in quest of food,
swept in long lines across the horizon. The weather was open for the
time of year, the wind strong but not too keen, and had it not been for
the lowness of the sun in the sky the day might have been autumn instead
of December. It was glorious to walk to the top of Wetherstone Heights
and see, miles away, the spire of Monkswell Church and the gleam of the
distant river, then to hurry back in the gloaming with the rising mists
creeping up like advancing specters, and to find the lamps lighted and
tea ready in the cheery bungalow. Nobody wanted to quarrel with Yule
cake and muffins, and even Mr. Saxon temporarily forgot his worries and
relapsed into quite amusing reminiscences of certain adventures in
France.

If only our spirits would keep up to the point to which, with much
effort, we screw them, all would be well: unfortunately they often have
a tiresome knack of descending with a run. When tea was finished and
cleared away Mr. Saxon found the presence of his family a hindrance to
reading, and at a hint from their mother the younger members of the
party took themselves off into the little drawing-room. Here, round a
black fire, which, despite Hereward's poking, refused to burn brightly,
the grumble-cloud that had been lowering all day burst at last.

"If we'd only got the Rotherwood billiard table there'd be something to
do!" groused Egbert gloomily.

"There isn't a corner in this poky hole where a fellow can fiddle with
photography," chimed in Athelstane, "even if there was time to do it.
When I get back from Birkshaw it's nothing but grind, grind, grind at
medical books all the evening."

"Rather have your job than mine, though," said Egbert. "You haven't to
sit under the Pater's eye all day long, and have him down on you like a
cartload of bricks if you make the slightest slip. I'm the worst off of
the whole lot of us!"

"What about me at that odious Grammar School?" asked Hereward, pressing
his claims to the palm of dissatisfaction.

"Or me at the hostel!" urged Ingred, not to be outdone.

"I don't think you, any of you, realize how slow it is just to stop at
home!" sighed Quenrede. "There were sixteen dozen things I'd made up my
mind to do, and I can't do one of them. It's going to be a hateful New