The Whiteoak Brothers. Mazo de la Roche

you, Meggie darling. I should have hated to be sent upstairs to tidy myself like a little boy.” He attacked his bacon and eggs with appetite.

      Finch was thinking — “How does Eden get that way? Doesn’t he mind what’s said? Or is he just so darned proud?” Yet Finch had seen Eden look blacker than he had ever seen one of his other brothers. But when Eden looked black you didn’t know what it was about. Last year, he had remained cool in the storm which had raged about him, yet Finch had heard him walking about his room in the middle of the night. Perhaps he felt things more than he showed.

      Nicholas must have been thinking about that time too, for he remarked to Eden — “Of course, you’ve heard that I was sent down from Oxford.”

      “Oh, yes, and you have no idea how that endears you to me.”

      “Grandfather,” said Renny, his eyes full on Eden’s face, “had more money to waste than I have.”

      The upbringing and education of his young half-brothers was his responsibility and a father he was to them. The smile faded on Eden’s lips. His smile always had the shadow of pain in it and now that shadow deepened before it faded. Ernest gave him a sympathetic look and began to talk of the weather, which had greatly worsened. The rain now slashed furiously on the windowpanes, making a wall between those in the room and the desolate world beyond. No one who was not forced to would venture out on this day.

      More thickly buttered toast with marmalade was eaten, the huge silver teapot was replenished and emptied, while the windows trembled in their frames and down the roof poured the rain, washing away the last of the snow that lay in little ridges on the northward side. Wragge, with an air of ceremony, as though he were performing a juggling trick and showing the family something they had never before seen, opened the folding doors that led to the sitting room, grandly called the library though there was no more than a hundred books on its shelves. Nicholas, Ernest, and Eden kept their own books in their rooms. One of the shelves in this room was filled by books on the breeding of show horses, care of the horse in health and disease, a history of the Grand National, books on the judging of show horses and their training. These were only a portion of the books and magazines on the same subject which were perused by the master of the house, and many of which were in his office in the stable or littered the shelves of his clothes cupboard.

      “It is cold in here,” remarked Ernest with a glance at the fireplace.

      “There is an east wind.”

      “If there’s an east wind,” said his brother, “the chimney would smoke.”

      “The wind is from the south,” Meg declared, “right off the lake.”

      “I’m positive it’s from the east,” persisted Ernest.

      “If it’s from the east, the chimney will smoke like the devil,” said Renny.

      “It’s from the south,” said Meg. “Finch, just go out to the porch and see if it isn’t from the south.”

      Everybody looked at Finch, as though quite suddenly he had become interesting. He stared back truculently.

      Why should he be chosen to go out into the wet and cold to discover which way the wind blew? And on his birthday. “It’s from the east,” he muttered. He did not want a fire lighted, for he would probably be sent to fetch wood for it. Always it was he who was sent to do unpleasant things.

      “Get a move on,” ordered Renny, raising an eyebrow at him. Glumly he went to the hall and opened the front door against the blast. He stepped out into the porch and shut the door with a bang behind him.... Here was an icy cold dripping world, filled with the thunder of rain and wind. The heavy branches of the evergreen trees swayed senselessly, the bare branches of maple and birch, but dimly visible against the rain, were without meaning, as though never would life run through them again. Their sap was sunk into their roots, and their roots clung to the wet clay in fear of being torn up. Where had the birds hidden themselves? Were there perhaps, deep down in the sodden ground, flat-faced worms which knew that spring was coming? The first day of March — and his birthday and no one had thought it worth noticing! He did not care which way the wind blew. Let it blow. Let it blow the chimneys down.

      The door opened, and closed. Renny was standing beside him. “What’s the matter with you, Finch?” he demanded. “How long does it take you to discover which way the wind blows?”

      “It’s blowing every way,” growled Finch, standing where the rain beat full on him.

      “This is a pretty way to behave — and on your birthday too.”

      At last the words were out. At last the day had been mentioned. But how? In what a way? Flung at him — in rebuke. Renny too drew back, as though he wished he had not mentioned it. Doubtless he was sorry he had mentioned it, as he had no present for him. Now Renny was saying — “The wind is blowing the rain into the porch, so it’s from the south. We can have a fire. Come in.”

      He took Finch by the arm, in a jocular way, and propelled him back to the library.

      “The wind,” he announced, “is straight from the south. Get some logs, Finch.” He himself knelt in front of the fireplace, crumpled a newspaper and took a handful of kindling from a small battered oak chest.

      Finch brought logs from the basement, labouring up the stairs with them, as though they were made of lead. Outside his grandmother’s bedroom, which was opposite the dining room, he hesitated, wondering whether or not she would remember his birthday. Well, she made a great fuss over her own. Surely she might give a thought to other people’s. As his eyes rested speculatively on the door, the rappings of her stick sounded on the bedroom floor, and she called out — “Come in!”

      He could not very well go to her with his arms full of logs, yet there was that peremptory note in her voice which took for granted that you would run at her bidding. He stood still, wondering what to do.

      Again she called out, and this time more sharply — “Come in!”

      Holding the six logs to his breast with his left arm, the sweetness of the pine filling his nostrils, he gingerly opened the door and put his face in the opening. In the room was a different world, the world of the very old. The heavy maroon curtains were drawn across the windows, and the still air was laden with the scent of sandalwood, camphor, and hair oil. In the dimness the pale shape of the bed was visible and a night-capped head on the pillow.

      “Which of you is it?” demanded the voice, old but vibrant.

      “It’s Finch, Granny.”

      “Well, come in and let in the light.”

      “I … I can’t. I’ll come back and do it.”

      “Do it now.”

      “But Gran, I’ve got an armful of wood.”

      “Put it down and come in.”

      Finch’s voice broke on a note of anguish. “Gran, it will make a mess on your carpet and I’m supposed to take these logs to Renny for the fire.”

      That was enough for her. If there was to be a tug of war over who was to be waited on first, she was ready for it.

      “Put down the wood,” she ordered, and he could perceive her struggling to sit up.

      He laid the logs carefully in the doorway and went to her. She was propped on one elbow. She gave a chuckle, as of pleasure in her little triumph. “Kiss me,” she said.

      He put his arms about her old body in its heavy cotton nightdress that was trimmed with embroidery, and hugged her. That was what she liked from her sons and grandsons, a good hug and a hearty kiss. It seemed to put fresh life into her. She was ninety-eight years old. Her arms, surprisingly strong, held him close.

      “Now open the curtains.”

      “It’s an awful day, Gran. The worst sort of day you could think of for the time of year.”

      “What