ar-fetched delicacy of feeling which it was hard to get at, and
harder still to understand.

Chapter VII

Summer had come round again, and the motionless white heat of December
lay heavy on the place. The low little houses seemed to cower beneath
it; and the smoke from their chimneys drew black, perpendicular lines
on the pale sky. If it was a misery at this season to traverse the
blazing, dusty roads, it was almost worse to be within doors, where the
thin wooden walls were powerless to keep out the heat, and flies and
mosquitoes raged in chorus. Nevertheless, determined Christmas
preparations went on in dozens of tiny, zinc-roofed kitchens, the
temperature of which was not much below that of the ovens themselves;
and kindly, well-to-do people like Mrs. Glendinning and Mrs. Urquhart
drove in in hooded buggies, with green fly-veils dangling from their
broad-brimmed hats, and dropped a goose here, a turkey there, on their
less prosperous friends. They robbed their gardens, too, of the
summer's last flowers, arum-lilies and brilliant geraniums, to decorate
the Archdeacon's church for the festival; and many ladies spent the
whole day beforehand making wreaths and crosses, and festoons to
encircle the lamps.

No one was busier than Polly. She wanted to give Purdy, who had been on
short commons for so long, a special Christmas treat. She had willing
helpers in him and Jerry: the two of them chopped and stoned and
stirred, while she, seated on the block of the woodstack, her head tied
up in an old pillow-case, plucked and singed the goose that had fallen
to her share. Towards four o'clock on Christmas Day they drew their
chairs to the table, and with loosened collars set about enjoying the
good things. Or pretending to enjoy them. This was Mahony's case; for
the day was no holiday for him, and his head ached from the sun. At
tea-time Hempel arrived to pay a call, looking very spruce in a long
black coat and white tie; and close on his heels followed old Mr.
Ocock. The latter, having deposited his hat under his seat and tapped
several pockets, produced a letter, which he unfolded and handed to
Polly with a broad grin. It was from his daughter, and contained the
news of his wife's death. "Died o' the grumbles, I lay you! An' the
first good turn she ever done me." The main point was that Miss Amelia,
now at liberty, was already taking advice about the safest line of
clipper-ships, and asking for a reply BY RETURN to a nu