Patricia St John Series by Patricia St John

Author:Patricia St John [John, Patricia St.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8024-8244-0
Publisher: Moody Publishers
Published: 1982-11-27T05:00:00+00:00

Stirrings Under the Snow

The family had started tea when I got home, and Mr. Owen had gone out to look for me. The children, as usual, were in a great state of excitement.

“Where have you been?” shouted Janet. “Daddy’s gone to look for you, and you missed Sunday school.”

“We thought you had drowned in the river,” remarked Johnny cheerfully.

“Or you’d been kidnapped,” added Frances, her eyes very round.

“Or we thought perhaps you’d run away,” chimed in Peter, his mouth full of cake.

“Where’ve you been?” demanded Robin, beaming at me over his mug of milk.

There was one good thing about these children: they asked questions so hard and fast that there was never time to give an answer or explain, and I did not wish to explain. I looked rather anxiously at Mrs. Owen to see if she was cross; she had certainly looked relieved when I came in.

“You mustn’t go so far alone till you know the way about, Elaine,” she said gently. “The paths are confusing around here. Now stop asking where she’s been, all of you. She doesn’t know where she’s been. She only came the day before yesterday.”

Nevertheless, as soon as tea was over, she called me into the kitchen and, sitting down on a chair by the window, she pulled me gently toward her and asked me herself where I’d been.

“Only for a walk,” I replied rather rebelliously. “There’s nothing wrong in going for a walk alone, is there, Mrs. Owen?”

“Oh, no,” she said quietly, “there’s nothing wrong at all. Janet often goes for walks alone. It’s just that I’m afraid of you getting lost when you don’t know the country. Come and tell me when you want to go out alone, Elaine, and then I shall know where you are.”

I was rather surprised at this speech, for I had thought she was going to be cross, but she wasn’t at all. Yet she seemed puzzled, as though she was trying to understand why I would want to be alone, and I had a sort of feeling that if I could make her understand, she would try to help.

“Mrs. Owen,” I murmured, “do you see that wall?”

She gazed out into the dusk. Over the hills above “my cottage,” there were still orange streaks in the stormy sky, and I could see the wall.

“Yes?” she answered questioningly.

“Well,” I said, “I won’t go any farther than there. Just around the other side of the bushes there’s a special place where I want to play. And please, Mrs. Owen, let me go and play there alone, and don’t let the others come and look for me. I like playing alone better.”

She smiled understandingly, for she knew all about special places. All of her children had them.

“You can play there whenever you like, dear,” she said kindly. “You’ve been used to playing alone, haven’t you? All the same, I hope you’ll sometimes play with Janet and Peter too. They’d like you to share their games.”

I didn’t answer and, having got what I wanted—permission to play alone—I drew away.

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