Jim Davis | Page 7

service to this dear
woman who walked by me so merrily.
When we came to the foot of the combe, to the bridge over the
trout-stream, she stopped for a moment. "Jim," she said, drawing me to
her, "I shall never forget to-night, nor the little friend who rode out to
help me; I want you, after this, always to look on me as your mother--I
knew your mother a little, years ago. Well, dear, try to think of me as
you would of her, and be a brother to my Hugh, Jim: let us all three be
one family." She stooped down and kissed my cheek and lips.
"I will, Mrs Cottier," I said; "I'll always be a brother to Hugh." I was
too deeply moved to say much more, for I had so long yearned for
some woman like my mother to whom I could go for sympathy and to
whom I could tell everything without the fear of being snubbed or
laughed at. I just said, "Thank you, Mims." I don't know why I called
her "Mims" then, but I did, and afterwards I never called her anything
else; that was my secret name for her. She kissed me again and stroked
my cheek with her hand, and we went on again together up the last
steep bit of road to the house. Always, after that, I never thought of Mrs
Cottier without feeling her lips upon my cheek and hearing the stamp
of old Greylegs as he pawed on the snow, eager for the stable just
round the corner.

It was very nice to get round the corner and to see the lights of the
house a little way in front of us; in a minute or two we were there. Mrs
Cottier had been dragged in to the fire to all sorts of comforting drinks
and exclamations, and old Greylegs was snug in his stable having his
coat rubbed down before going to sleep under his rug. We were all glad
to get to bed that night: Hugh and my aunt were tired with anxiety, and
Mrs Cottier and I had had enough adventure to make us very thankful
for rest.
Before we parted for the night she drew me to one side and told me that
she had not mentioned the night-riders to my uncle and aunt while I
was busy in the stable, and that it might be safer if I, too, kept quiet
about them. I do not know how she explained the absence of Nigger,
but I am sure they were all too thankful to have her safely home again
to bother much about the details of her drive.
Hugh and I always slept in soldier's cot-beds in a little room looking
out over the lane. During the night we heard voices, and footsteps
moving in the lane beneath us, and our dog (always kennelled at the
back of the house) barked a good deal. Hugh and I crept from our bed
and peered through the window, but it opened the wrong way; we could
only look down the lane, whereas the noise seemed to come from just
above us, near the stable door; unluckily, the frost had covered the
window with ice-flowers, so that we could not see through the glass.
We were, however, quite certain that there were people with lights
close to our stable door; we thought at first that we had better call Mrs
Cottier, and then it flashed through my mind that these were the
night-riders, come to return Nigger, so I told Hugh to go back to bed
and forget about it. I waited at the window for a few moments,
wondering if the men would pass the house; I felt a horrible longing to
see those huge and ghastly things in skirts and bee-skeps striding across
the snow, going home from their night's prowl like skulking foxes; but
whoever they were they took no risks. Some one softly whistled a scrap
of a tune ("Tom, Tom, the piper's son") as though he were pleased at
having finished a good piece of work, and then I heard footsteps going
over the gap in the hedge and the crackling of twigs in the little wood
on the other side of the lane. I went back to bed and slept like a top

until nearly breakfast time.
I went out to the stable as soon as I was dressed, to find Joe Barnicoat,
our man, busy at his morning's work; he had already swept away the
snow from the doors of the house and stable, so that I could not see
what footmarks had been made there since I went to fetch Greylegs at
eight the night before. Joe was in a great state of excitement, for during
the