Mrs. Overtheways Remembrances | Page 3

shouldn't pretend what's not true," replied Nurse, in whose
philosophy fancy and falsehood were not distinguished. "Play with
your dolls, my dear, and don't move the chairs out of their places."
With which Nurse carried off the chair into a corner as if it had been a
naughty child, and Ida gave up her day-dream with a sigh; since to have
prolonged the fancy that Mrs. Overtheway was present, she must have
imagined her borne off at the crisis of the meal after a fashion not
altogether consistent with an old lady's dignity.
Summer passed, and winter came on. There were days when the white
steps looked whiter than usual; when the snowdrift came halfway up
the little green gate, and the snowflakes came softly down with a
persistency which threatened to bury the whole town. Ida knew that on
such days Mrs. Overtheway could not go out; but whenever it was
tolerably fine the old lady appeared as usual, came daintily down the

steps, and went where the bells were calling. Chim! chime! chim!
chime! They sounded so near through the frosty air, that Ida could
almost have fancied that the church was coming round through the
snowy streets to pick up the congregation.
Mrs. Overtheway looked much the same in winter as in summer. She
seemed as fresh and lively as ever, carried her Prayer-book and
handkerchief in the same hand, was only more warmly wrapped up, and
wore fur-lined boots, which were charming. There was one change,
however, which went to Ida's heart. The little old lady had no longer a
flower to take to church with her. At Christmas she took a sprig of
holly, and after that a spray of myrtle, but Ida felt that these were poor
substitutes for a rose. She knew that Mrs. Overtheway had flowers
somewhere, it is true, for certain pots of forced hyacinths had passed
through the little green gate to the Christmas church decorations; but
one's winter garden is too precious to be cropped as recklessly as
summer rose-bushes, and the old lady went flowerless to church and
enjoyed her bulbs at home. But the change went to Ida's heart.
Spring was early that year. At the beginning of February there was a
good deal of snow on the ground, it is true, but the air became milder
and milder, and towards the end of the month there came a real spring
day, and all the snow was gone.
"You may go and play in the garden, Miss Ida," said Nurse, and Ida
went.
She had been kept indoors for a long time by the weather and by a cold,
and it was very pleasant to get out again, even when the only
amusement was to run up and down the shingly walks and wonder how
soon she might begin to garden, and whether the gardener could be
induced to give her a piece of ground sufficiently extensive to grow a
crop of mustard-and-cress in the form of a capital I. It was the kitchen
garden into which Ida had been sent. At the far end it was cut off from
the world by an overgrown hedge with large gaps at the bottom,
through which Ida could see the high road, a trough for watering horses,
and beyond this a wood. The hedge was very thin in February, and Ida
had a good view in consequence, and sitting on a stump in the sunshine

she peered through the gap to see if any horses came to drink. It was as
good as a peep-show, and indeed much better.
"The snow has melted," gurgled the water, "here I am." It was
everywhere. The sunshine made the rich green mosses look dry, but in
reality they were wet, and so was everything else. Slish! slosh! Put your
feet where you would, the water was everywhere. It filled the stone
trough, which, being old and grey and steady, kept it still, and bade it
reflect the blue sky and the gorgeous mosses; but the trough soon
overflowed, and then the water slipped over the side, and ran off in a
wayside stream. "Winter is gone!" it spluttered as it ran. "Winter is
gone, winter-is-gone, winterisgone!" And, on the principle that a good
thing cannot be said too often, it went on with this all through the
summer, till the next winter came and stopped its mouth with icicles.
As the stream chattered, so the birds in the wood sang--Tweet! tweet!
chirrup! throstle! Spring! Spring! Spring!--and they twittered from tree
to tree, and shook the bare twigs with melody; whilst a single blackbird
sitting still upon a bough below, sang "Life!" "Life!" "Life!" with the
loudest pipe of his throat, because on such a day it was happiness only
to be alive.
It was