Renny's Daughter. Mazo de la Roche

      We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

      Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

      J. Kirk Howard, President

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      I

      STIRRINGS OF SPRING

      The room could scarcely have been more snug for two very old men. The birch logs in the fireplace had blazed brightly and now had been resolved into glowing red shapes that looked solid but were near the point of crumbling. Soon a fresh log would be needed. There were plenty of them in the battered basket by the hearth. The February sunshine glittered on long icicles outside the window and the steady dripping from them played a pleasant tune on the sill. It was almost time for tea.

      The two old brothers, Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak, were quite ready for it. They ate lightly but liked their food often. Tea was their favourite meal. Nicholas looked impatiently at the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf.

      “What time is it?” he asked.

      “A quarter past four.”

      “What?”

      “A quarter past four.”

      “Hm. I wonder where everyone is.”

      “I wonder.”

      “Winter’s getting on.”

      “Yes. It’s St. Valentine’s Day.”

      “I have a valentine.” The clear pipe came from the hearthrug where their great-nephew Dennis was lying with a book in front of him.

      “You have a valentine, eh?” exclaimed Ernest. “And do you know who sent it to you?”

      “No. That’s a secret. But I guess it was Adeline.” He rose and stood between the two old men like a slender shoot growing between two ancient oaks. He wore a green pullover which accentuated his clear pallor, the blondness of his straight hair, and the greenness of his long narrow eyes.

      Ernest said, in rather halting French, — “I have always considered those eyes of his rather a disfigurement. They’re altogether too green. Certainly his mother’s eyes were greenish but not like this.”

      Dennis said, in English, — “I understood every word you said.”

      “What did I say then?” demanded Ernest.

      “You said my eyes were too green. Greener than my mother’s.”

      “I’m very sorry,” said Ernest. “I apologize. I forget that you’re not just a very small boy.”

      “I was nine at Christmas.”

      “Eight. I well remember when I was eight. I had a beautiful birthday party, in this very house.”

      “How old are you now, Uncle Ernest?”

      “I am ninety-four. That seems quite old to you, I daresay.”

      “Yes. Pretty old.”

      “Yet I remember my eighth birthday as though it were just a month ago. It was a lovely spring day and I had a new suit for the occasion. There had been a heavy rain the night before and, as I ran out to welcome the first guest, I tripped and fell into a puddle on the drive. The front of the jacket was all wet with muddy water! Even my lace collar was wet.”

      “Lace collar!”

      “Yes. Boys dressed differently in those days.”

      Ernest would have liked to go on talking about the past but the door opened and a young girl came in. She was the daughter of the old men’s eldest nephew, Renny Whiteoak. She went to the brothers and kissed them in turn.

      “Hullo, Uncles,” she exclaimed. “You look beautiful, bless your hearts.”

      “All spruced up for tea,” rumbled Nicholas. “And tired of waiting for it.”

      Adeline stroked his upstanding grey hair which the onslaught of the years had failed perceptibly to thin. “I love your hair, Uncle Nick,” she said. “It looks so massive.”

      At once Ernest felt a twinge of jealousy. He passed a hand over his thin white hair and said disparagingly:

      “I don’t know why it is but your Uncle Nicholas’ hair never looks as though he ran a brush over it.”

      “That’s the trouble,” said Adeline. “He runs the brush over it, not through it. I’ll have a go at it one of these days and show you how handsome he can look.”

      Nicholas looked up at her adoringly. He took one of her slim, strong hands in his and held it to his cheek.

      “You’ve been outdoors,” he said. “I smell the frosty air on your hand.”

      “Yes. I’ve just had the dogs for a walk. I’m starving.”

      “Here comes the tea!” cried Dennis.

      Through the door which Adeline had left open behind her, a small thin man, with close-cropped grey hair and an expression of mingled resignation