A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,48

wouldn't go and look for them, after somebody came and took them away.” The boy stopped and began to shuffle his feet, staring down at them until his nose began to run. He quickly brought up a mitten to absorb some of the moisture. “But now they're back.”

“What? All of them?”

“Yes. Mother wanted me to tell you that, and to bring you this.” He hopped back to his sister, who took something from beneath her cloak where it had been providing her slight body with an extra layer of warmth. “Hello, Mrs. Willett!” she called down, her voice quivering from the cold.

“Good day, Anne!” Charlotte called back. “What is it you've brought me?”

At first she imagined it would be a small gift, something to thank her for returning the spoon. Then she saw that it was the canvas bag she'd been seeking. It passed from Anne's mittened hands to Win's, and then to her own. Inside lay the scarf with a snowflake pattern—the one she'd knitted herself.

“Mother says she recognized whose it was as soon as she saw my father brought it home with him last night,” Win said. “And she said instead of returning it when she came to visit, she'd send it now. She also wanted us to find my father, and tell him he needs to come home.”

“He's with Mr. Longfellow,” Charlotte told them. “Try the Sloan house. If he's not there yet, you might leave a message. But you and Anne should then go home. Look—!”

Fat flakes suddenly filled the air.

“Come on, Win,” his sister cried, bouncing on the strange saddle. “Good-bye, Mrs. Willett!”

“Good-bye, Anne. Tell your mother that I look forward to seeing her! You, too, if you'd like to come for tea. Thank her for the return of the bag!”

“I will,” came the faint voice, from inside the girl's cloak.

“There's one more message!” the boy exclaimed, turning back from the horse, who'd already made a dancing turn toward the west.

“What's that?” asked Charlotte.

“She said—she said my father told her not to say anything more about the spoons, or what happened to them. And he says he knows who took them, too.”

“Who?”

“Some imp of Satan, my father says. They've long lived across from us on the isle. Now they're doing the Devil's work, trying to make it seem my father's not doing his job. That's why they came across to take the spoons, probably by magic, and put them back the same way. To make him look foolish while he's constable.”

“What does your mother say to that, Win?”

“She says she isn't sure. But at least she's not as angry as she was before. She will be, though, if I don't bring Anne home, now that the snow's started. Will you hold the reins?”

The boy held out the long leather straps. He put his foot in a loop of rope and slowly hoisted himself up, while his bulky winter clothing fought against him. At last he settled himself in front of his sister, and reached down for the reins. Within moments, the horse started eagerly for the river bridge and the north road beyond.

“Thank you!” Charlotte called after them, holding up the bag. The children did not seem to hear. Very soon they were lost in the thickly falling snowflakes. Waiting no longer, she clutched her cloak, bent her head, and made her own way toward home.

Suddenly, halfway up the hill, the wind slowed, and for a while the snow fell like powder about Charlotte's head. Passing the Bracebridge Inn, she looked closely, but saw no one out. Yet when she looked left toward Richard Longfellow's front lawn, she saw a woman walking toward her.

The hooded cloak of black sealskin told her it must be Diana, picking her way carefully over slush that had long ago frozen into peaks and valleys; now, these were receiving a new and treacherous coating of pure white. Even though Diana extended her arms for balance, it seemed likely she could lose her footing at any moment.

It was a relief to them both when the young woman finally gained the road. She reached through her cloak, and her neighbor's, to clutch Charlotte's arm. They stood together a moment, looking with wonder at the sky. It was a greenish-gray; white flakes caught all the light that remained, falling in a dizzying display against the bleak background.

“Richard had already gone off when I awoke,” Diana complained petulantly. “And no one else has been to see me all day! Cicero said you were away,