red-breast, hunched into a ball and watching her from a wintry willow
bough; the only moving object a windmill half a mile away across the
level, turning its sails against the steel-gray sky--so listlessly,
they seemed to be numbed.

She had strapped on a pair of skates--clumsy homemade things, and a
birthday present from Johnny Whitelamb, who had fashioned them with
pains, the Epworth blacksmith helping. Hetty skated excellently
well--in days, be it understood, before the cutting of figures had
been advanced to an art with rules and text-books. But as the poise
and balanced impetus came natural to her, so in idle moments and
casually she had struck out figures of her own, and she practised
them now with the red-breast for spectator. She was happy--her
bosom's lord sitting lightly on his throne--and all because of two
letters she pulled from her pocket and re-read in the pauses of her
skating.

The first was from her mother at Wroote, and told her that to-day or
to-morrow her father would be arriving at Kelstein with her sister
Patty. Hetty had been expecting this for some weeks. At Christmas
(it was now mid-January) the Granthams had written praising her, and
this had given Mr. Wesley the notion of proffering yet another of his
daughters. Two days after receiving the letter he had ridden over to
Kelstein with the proposal. Patty was the one chosen (Hetty could
guess why), and poor Patty knew nothing of it at the time: but Mrs.
Grantham had accepted almost effusively, and she was to come.
In what capacity? Hetty wondered. She herself taught the children,
and she could think of no other post in the household not absolutely
menial. Was it selfish of her to be so glad? For one thing Patty had
fewer whimsies than the rest of her sisters and, likely enough, would