Chapter VII: A White Fairyland

NO matter how dismal things may look overnight, long hours of sleep do make a difference, especially if one is only eight years old. Jock never once opened his eyes till broad daylight, and then he started suddenly wide awake. He sat up and took a good look round.

It was a very pretty little room. Somebody had been at pains to make it nice. In one corner stood a small table, with a little writing-desk on it, and a bookcase above, half-full of books, but with space for more books of his own. He gazed with eager eyes, taking in one thing after another.

Then he saw that the window-panes were covered with frost-pictures. There were trees in rows, and trees singly, and houses, and even people—all sketched by the busy fingers of Jack Frost. He had seen something of the kind before, but nothing equal to this. Jumping out of bed, he ran to the window.

And such a scene burst on him!

Below lay a small lawn covered by a thin white carpet, and in the centre of the lawn was a big tree, it, too, being dressed in white. From its topmost to its undermost twigs it was clothed in pure white. Jock supposed that a fall of snow had come in the night. But this was not snow, it was hoarfrost—such a thick hoarfrost that it lay along the bigger boughs three-quarters of an inch deep. And beyond the lawn were clumps of evergreen bushes, and each leaf of those bushes carried its own white trimming.

It was a fairyland scene, and Jock could not turn his eyes away. He had seen snow at home, pretty enough at first, when great flakes came floating down, even though they fell through a murky atmosphere. But he knew how black and grimy they soon became. Anything like this vision of purity he had never known.

When his toes complained of the cold floor, his first thought was that he could not possibly go back to bed. He must dress at once, and run out to see things for himself.

A brass clock on the mantelpiece spoke, and it said in very hurried tones—EIGHT. Jock was rather astonished, for at home he had always got up at seven. He did not know that Aunt Judith had ordered that he should not be aroused, but should sleep on. She might be a trifle short in manner and speech, but she had noted the boy's white face, and when Emma came to say how soundly he was sleeping, she said—"Let him rest till half-past eight. Have him ready by nine, and he shall breakfast with me."

A bath had been put ready, with plenty of cold water, to which he was used. He went in for a good splashing, and dressed with all possible speed, for he was eager to get out of doors. At home he had always been free to race in and out of the back-garden whenever he pleased, and it never entered his mind that perhaps here he ought to ask leave.

He met no one on the stairs or in the hall, and the front door stood invitingly open. Before him lay the front drive, with three or four elm-trees in the centre, and away to the right was a larger lawn. He walked down the drive, following its bend, and then turned sharply off to the right, racing across the big lawn towards a small pond which drew his attention.

All round the pond were heaped-up rocks, where, in summer, flowers grew abundantly. No flowers were to be seen now, but only leaves dressed in white, and the water at its edges was frozen hard. Jock stooped to examine it, and with his fingers broke off a piece of ice, nearly overbalancing himself as he did so, which might have meant a second cold bath.

He was so excited that he danced about on the slippery grass, quite forgetful of the fact that he had had no breakfast. It did not occur to him that people might be puzzled, if no one knew where he was gone. So he wandered round the pond, and on towards a wide grassy ditch, called a "haw-haw," dividing the garden from a field. The sun shone brightly, and millions of tiny ice-needles on grass and on leaves flashed forth gleams of light in response to the sun's kisses.

"Oh-h!" Jock said to himself in a wordless rapture. He stood still, and again murmured—"Oh—h!"

"What's your name?" demanded a shrill little voice.

Jock found himself facing a girl just beyond the haw-haw, standing on the slope of the field. He stared instead of answering. She was very slight, with long thin legs like sticks, and an extremely short frock, and tiny hands, ungloved. A cloth cap was stuck jauntily on one side of her head, while below it hung wisps of black hair. The face was small, with a pointed chin, and the black eyes roved everywhere, but came constantly back to Jock.

"I s'pose you're the new little boy," she remarked.

Jock felt insulted. "Little" indeed. Though not tall for his age, he was the bigger of the two.

"You've got red hair," she went on.

"It isn't red," protested Jock, but she ignored this.

"Mine's black. I wish it was nice and curly like yours. Stop—I'll come."

She retreated some paces, then took a run and cleared the ditch in fine style, landing close to her new acquaintance, at whom she looked with interest. "You haven't told me your name."

"I'm Jock Munro."

She nodded, and Jock asked in his turn, "What's yours?"

"I'm Mousie Moore. Dad called me 'Mousie' when I was a baby, 'cause I was such a wee thing, and they all do. I'm Phœbe really, and sometimes I'm called 'Fee.' And the boys are Tom and Hugh and Artie. And Bertha is our baby. How old are you?"

"I'm just eight."

"Is that all?"—in a superior tone. "Why, I'm nine and a quarter. Isn't it jolly your being here?"

Jock was silent. In the midst of it all he suddenly—remembered. A lump came into his throat.

The slim-legged maiden studied him closely.

"Never mind," she said consolingly. "'I'll' take care of you."

Jock felt his manliness at stake. To be taken up thus protectingly by a slip of a girl, smaller than himself, was rather too much.

Mousie came close, and, to his astonishment, imprinted a kind, though patronizing kiss on his cheek.

Jock promptly scoured it off.

"And we're going to see lots and lots of you," Mousie continued, undisturbed. "You're going to have lessons with the boys—only not to-day. And we'll do heaps and heaps of things together. I say—there's the gong. Hurry." She flung out her little claw-like hands. "Miss Baynes is most frightfully puncshal. Run—scamper—fly!—don't stop a moment."

And Jock obediently fled, though he rather resented being ordered about by so small a person, who wasn't even a boy.