CHAPTER XXIII.

AT BAY, AND IN THE BAY.

EVERY one, who can call to mind that year of bad weather, 1860, will bear me out in saying that it showed no weakness, no lack of consistency to the last. Rain and chill were the rule of the summer, snow and severe cold the order of the winter. In the beginning of December, the earth was sodden, and the rivers thick with flood. Then the sky was amassed with fog, and the trees hung low with trembling drip, and even the humble weeds and grass were bearded with a glaucous reek, not crisp nor bright as of rime or frost, but limp, and dull, and bleary. Having never seen such a thing till now, I could not tell what to make of it; but Uncle Corny, who had been compelled for years to watch the weather, said—“Up with all the winter apples, and the Glou Morceau, and Beurré Rance, up with them all to Covent Garden, or we shall have them frozen on the shelves. Or even if we can keep the frost out, we shall have the van snowed up. Things looked just as they do now, in December, 1837, only the ground was not so wet. Go down to the barges, and order in ten tons of coal, we shall want it all, and twenty chaldrons of gas-coke. The frost will last till February, and fuel will cost a rare price then.”

I was inclined to laugh at this as a bold and rash prediction; but it was more than verified by the weather that set in upon the eighteenth of December, not with any sudden change, but the cold growing more decided. By this time Honeysuckle Cottage was thoroughly cleansed, and in good trim, painted, and papered, and neatly furnished, with Tabby put in to keep it warm, but only permitted to use one room. And I used to go there every day, and sit in the little parlour, reading the only