"I've done a lovely one," I said, "of a horse."

"Tom'll like that. He's a rare one for horses. We're thinking of putting him to learn with Blacksmith Jolly. Blacksmiths have a lot to do with horses."

Sessions with Matty always came to an end too soon. They were always overshadowed by the knowledge that Aunt Amelia would be expecting me home.

Crabtree Cottage was cheerless after Matty's. The linoleum on the floor was polished to danger point and there was no holly propped up over the pictures of Christ and St. Stephen. It would have certainly looked out of place there and to have stuck a piece over the disagreeable Queen would have been nothing short of lese majesty.

"Dirty stuff," had been Aunt Amelia's comment. "Drops all over the place and the berries get trodden in."

The day of the party came. We did our singing, and the more talented of us—I was not among them—recited and did their solos. The postbox was opened. Tom had sent me a beautiful drawing of a horse and on the paper was written: "A merry Christmas. Yours truly, Tom Grey." Everyone in the school had sent everyone else a card, so it was a big delivery. The one I had from Anthony Felton was meant to wound rather than carry good wishes. It was the drawing of a witch on a broomstick. She had streaming dark hair and a black mole on her chin. "Wishing you a spellbinding Christmas," he had written on it. It was very badly drawn and I was delighted to note that the witch on it was more like Miss Brent than like me. I had had my revenge by sending him the picture of an enormously fat boy (Anthony was notoriously greedy and more than inclined to plumpness) holding a Christmas pudding. "Don't get too fat to ride this Christmas," I had written on it; and he would know that the card carried with it the hope that he would.

A few snowflakes fell on Christmas Eve and everyone was hoping it would settle. Instead it melted as soon as it touched the ground and was soon turning to rain.

I went to the midnight service with Aunt Amelia and Uncle William, which should have been an adventure because we were out so late; but nothing could really be an adventure when I walked between my two stern guardians and sat stiffly with them in the pew.

I was half asleep during the service and glad to be back in bed. Then it was Christmas morning, exciting in spite of the fact that there was no Christmas stocking for me. I knew that other children had them and thought it would be the height of fun to see one's stocking bulging with good things and plunging one's hand in to pull out the delights. "It's childish," said Aunt Amelia, "and bad for the stockings. You're too old now for such things, Suewellyn."

Still I had Anabel's presents. Clothes again—two dresses, one very beautiful. I had only worn the blue one she had given me once, and that was when she came. Now there was another silk one and a woolen one and a lovely sealskin muff. There were three books as well. I was delighted with these gifts and my great regret was that Anabel was not there to give them to me in person.

From Aunt Amelia there was a pinafore and from Uncle William a pair of stockings. I could not really feel very excited about them.

We went to church in the morning; then we came home and had dinner. It was a chicken which brought reminders, but there was no mention of wishbones. Christmas pudding followed. In the afternoon I read my books. It was a very long day. I longed to run across to the Greys' cottage. Matty had gone next door for the day and there were sounds of merriment spilling out on the green. Aunt Amelia heard it and tut-tutted, saying that Christmas was a solemn festival. It was Christ's birthday. People were meant to be solemn and not act like heathens.

"I think it ought to be happy," I pointed out, "because Christ was born."

Aunt Amelia said: "I hope you're not getting strange ideas, Suewellyn."

I heard her comment to Uncle William that there were all sorts at that school and it was a pity people like the Greys were allowed to send their children and mix with better folk.

I almost cried out that the Greys were the best folks I knew, but I was aware that it was no use trying to explain that to Aunt Amelia.

There was Boxing Day to follow ... another holiday and even quieter than Christmas Day. It was raining and the southwest wind gusted over the green.

A long day. I could only revel in my presents and wonder when I should wear the silk dress.

In the New Year Anabel came. Aunt Amelia had lighted a fire in the parlor—a rare event—and she had drawn up the Venetian blinds, for she could no longer complain of the sun's doing harm to her furniture.

The room still looked dismal in the light of the wintry sun. None of the pictures took any cheer from the light. St. Stephen looked more tortured, the Queen more disagreeable and Christ hadn't changed at all.

Miss Anabel arrived at the usual time, which was just after dinner. She looked lovely in a coat trimmed with fur and a sealskin muff, like the big sister of mine.

I hugged her and thanked her for the gifts.

"One day," she said, "you're going to have a pony. I am going to insist."

We talked as we always did. I showed her my books and we discussed school. I never told her about the teasing I received from Anthony Felton and his cronies because I knew that would worry her.

So the day passed with Anabel and in due course the fly came to take her back to the station. It seemed like just another of Anabel's visits, but this was not quite the case.

It was Matty who told me about the man at the King William Inn.

Tom was working there after school, carrying luggage into rooms and making himself generally useful. "It's a second string to his bow," said Matty. "In case it don't work out with the blacksmith."

Tom had told her about the man at the inn and Matty told me.

"A regular shindy-do there was up at the King William," she said. "He was a very high and mighty gentleman. Staying there in the best room. He arrived in a temper, he did. It was all along of there being no fly to take him to the King William when he got off the train. Well, how could there be? The fly was in use, wasn't it?" Matty nudged me. "You had a visitor yesterday, didn't you? Well, Mr. High and Mighty had to wait, and there's one thing that kind of gentleman don't like much ... and that's being kept waiting."

"It doesn't really take long for the fly to come to Crabtree Cottage and go back to the station."

"Ah, but rich important gentlemen don't like waiting one little minute while others is served. I had it from Jim Fenner." (He was our stationmaster, porter and man of all work at the station.) "There he was standing on the platform ranting and raging while the fly went off carrying your young lady in it. He kept saying, 'Where is it going? How far?" And old Jim he says, all upset like, because he could see this was a real gentleman, Jim says, 'Well, sir, it won't be that long. 'Tas only gone to Crabtree Cottage on the green with the young lady.' 'Crabtree Cottage,' he roars, 'and where might that be?'' Tis only on the green, sir. There by the church. Not much more than a stone's throw. The young lady could walk it in ten minutes. But she always takes the fly like and books it to bring her back to catch her train.' Well, that seemed to satisfy him and he said he'd wait. He asked Jim a lot of questions. He turned out to be a talkative sort of gentleman when he wasn't angry. He got all civil like and gave Jim five shillings. It's not every day Jim sees the likes of that. He says he hopes that gentleman stays a long time."

I couldn't stay talking to Matty, of course, so I left her and ran back to the cottage. It was getting dark early now and we left school in twilight. Miss Brent had said we should leave at three o'clock in winter because that would give the children who lived farther away time to get home before darkness fell. In the summer we finished at four. We started at eight in the morning instead of nine as in the summer and it was quite dark at eight.

Aunt Amelia was putting some leaves together. She said: "I'm going to take these to the church, Suewellyn. They're for the altar. It's a pity there are no flowers at this time of the year. Vicar was saying it looked bare after the autumn flowers were finished, so I said I would find some leaves and we would use them. He seemed to think it was a good idea. You can come with me."

I put my school bag in my room and dutifully went downstairs. We crossed the green to the church.

There was a hushed silence there. The stained glass windows looked different without the sun or even the gaslight to shine on them. I should have been a little scared to be there alone, afraid that the figure of Christ on the cross might come down and tell me how wicked I was. I thought that the pictures in the stained glass windows might come alive. There was a good deal of torturing in them and there was my old acquaintance St. Stephen up there, who seemed to have such a bad time on earth. Our footsteps rang out eerily on the stone flags.

"We shall have to hurry, Suewellyn," said Aunt Amelia. "It will be quite dark very soon."

We mounted the three stone steps to the altar.

"There!" said Aunt Amelia. "They'll make some sort of show. I think I had better put them in water. Here, Suewellyn, take this jar and fill it at the pump."

I took it and ran out of the church. The graveyard was just outside. The gravestones looked like old men and women kneeling down, their faces hidden in gray hoods.

The pump was a few yards from the church. To reach it I had to make my way past some of the oldest gravestones. I had read the inscriptions on them many times when we came out of church. People had been laid under them a long, long time ago. Some of the dates on them went back to the seventeenth century. I ran past them to the pump and vigorously began pumping the water and filling the pot.

As I did so I heard a sudden footstep. I looked over my shoulder. It had grown darker since Aunt Amelia and I entered the church. I felt a shiver run down my spine. I had the feeling that someone ... something was watching me.

I turned back to the pump. One had to work hard to get the water and it wasn't easy working the pump with one hand and holding the jar with the other.

My hands were shaking. Don't be silly, I said to myself. Why shouldn't someone else come to the churchyard? Perhaps it was the vicar's wife returning home to the vicarage or one of the devoted church workers who also had the idea of adorning the altar.

I had filled the jar too full. I tipped a little water out. Then I heard the sound again. I gasped with horror. A figure was standing there among the gravestones. I was sure it was a ghost who had risen from the tomb.

I gave a startled cry and ran as fast as I could to the church porch. The water in the jar slopped over and splashed down the front of my coat. But I had reached the sanctuary of the church.

There I paused for a moment to look over my shoulder. I could see no one.

Aunt Amelia was waiting impatiently at the altar.

"Come along, come along," she said.

I handed the jar to her. My hands were wet and cold and I was shivering.

"There's not enough here," she scolded. "Why, you careless girl, you've spilled it."

I stood firmly. "It's dark out there," I said stubbornly. Nothing would have induced me to go back to the pump.

"I suppose it will have to do," she said grudgingly. "Suewellyn, I don't know why you can't do things properly."

She arranged the leaves and we left the church. I kept very close to her as we crossed the graveyard and came out to the green.

"Not what I should have liked for the altar," said Aunt Amelia. "But they'll have to do."

I could not sleep that night. I kept dozing and thinking I was at the pump in the graveyard. I imagined the ghost starting up from the ground and coming out to frighten people. It had certainly frightened me. I had always thought of ghosts as misty white transparent beings. When I came to think of it, as far as the gloom and my fear would allow me, this one had been fully dressed. It was a man, a very tall man in a shiny black hat. I hadn't had time to notice very much else about him except the steadiness of his gaze. And that had been directed straight at me.

At last I slept and so deeply that I awoke late next morning.

Aunt Amelia surveyed me with a grim expression when I went down to breakfast. She had not given me a call. She never did. I was supposed to wake at the right time myself and get to school at the appointed hour. It was something to do with Discipline, for which Aunt Amelia had as great a reverence as she had for Respectability.