'Yes. They've been to shows year by year, and very well they've stood
it. I only hope the constant travelling won't set up fermentation. I
should like those Morellas to outlive me. A receipt I had of Jane
Thorn, and she died of dropsy, poor thing, and bottled to the end.'

'Dunna you ever eat 'em?' asked Hazel.

This was blasphemy. To eat 1909 Morellas! It was passed over in tense
silence, allowances being made for a prospective bride. 'Poor thing!
she's upset.'

The exhibits, packed in a great bed of the vivid star-moss that grew in
the secret recesses of the woods, were waiting on the front step in
their usual box. There were some wonderful new jellies that made Hazel
long to be Mrs. Marston and have control of the storeroom. This was a
dim place where ivy leaves scraped the cobwebby window, and tall green
canisters stood on shelves in company with glass jars, neatly labelled,
and barrels of home-made wine; where hams hung from the ceiling, and
herbs in bunches and on trays sent out a pungent sweetness. In there
the magic was now heightened by the presence--dignified even in
deshabille--of a wedding-cake which was being slowly but thoroughly
iced.

People often wondered how Mrs. Marston did it. No one ever saw her
hurried or busy, yet the proofs of her industry were here. She worked
like the coral insect, in the dark, as it were, of instinct unlit by
intellect, and, like the coral insect, she raised a monumental
structure that hemmed her in.

They had to start early, driven by Edward's one substantial