and a few fields round them were untouched. It was an
awful birthday for poor Pamela."

"Was your own farm hurt?" asked the girls breathlessly, as Rona paused
in her story.

"Not at all. You see it was in quite a different valley, and the fire
hadn't been near. Jake rode home with me, to make sure I was safe. Dad
hadn't even seen the smoke."

"Suppose you hadn't noticed the fire when you were up in the hills?"

"Then we should have been burnt to cinders, farm and all."

"I think Rona's most thrilling adventure will have to end our Stunt,"
said Mrs. Arnold. "It's nearly eight o'clock. Time to wind up and get
ready for supper. Attention, please! Each girl take her candle. Where's
our pianist? Torch-bearer Catherine, will you start the Good-night
Song?"

"I'm a candidate now, thanks to you!" exulted Rona to Ulyth; "perhaps by
Easter I may be a Wood-gatherer!"

"It's something to work for, isn't it?" said Mrs. Arnold, who happened
to overhear.

CHAPTER IX

A January Picnic

Winter in the Craigwen Valley, instead of proving a dreary season of
frost or fog, was apt to be as variable as April. Sheltered by the tall
mountains, the climate was mild, and though snow would lie on the peaks
of Penllwyd and Cwm Dinas it rarely rested on the lower levels. Very
early in January the garden at The Woodlands could boast brave clumps of
snowdrops and polyanthus, a venturous wallflower or two, and quite a
show of yellow jessamine over the south porch. The glade by the stream
never seemed to feel the touch of winter. Many of the oak-trees kept
their brown leaves till the new ones came to replace them, honeysuckle
trails and brambles continually put out verdant shoots, the lastrea
ferns that grew near the brink of the water showed tall green fronds
untouched by frost, and the moss was never more vivid. The glen, indeed,
had a special beauty in winter-time, for the bare boughs of the alders
took exquisite tender shades of purples and greys, warming into amber in
the sunshine, and defying the cunningest brush which artist could wield
to do them justice. By the middle of January the tightly rolled lambs'
tails on the hazels were unfolding themselves and beginning to scatter
pollen, and a few stray specimens of last summer's flowers, a belated
campion or hawkweed, would struggle out from the rough grass under a
protecting gorse-bush. The days varied: rain, the penalty for living
near mountains, often swept down the valley, b