As Nancy was tying the blue ribbon round Snow's white, furry neck, Terry holding her up by her fore-paws while a pretty knot was being made between her ears, Terry heard Nancy say to Granny:

"I think you are very tired, madam. I believe you miss your new-laid egg in the mornings; sure I know you do, madam."

"Why don't you have your new-laid egg in the mornings, Granny?" asked Terry, putting Snow down on the floor, and nestling up to her grandmother.

"Because, darling, the hens don't choose to lay, this cold weather."

"Do they never lay in cold weather? Are there no hens who will lay eggs for Gran'ma, Nursey dear?" urged Terry.

"I believe there's a few down at Connolly's farm," said Nancy; "at least I've heard so. I've a mind to send down and enquire."

Then Granny went off with Nancy to her bedroom, and the children were left in the sitting-room playing with the kittens.

"Turly," said Terry, "I want to speak to you. Put the kittens in their basket and come here."

Turly came directly and they sat on two little stools and looked into the fire.

"What is it about, Terry?" asked Turly. He was always ready for any startling plot or plan that Terry might propose to him.

"Did you hear Nancy saying Granny was getting weak for want of her new-laid eggs, and that the hens wouldn't lay them for her?"

"No," said Turly.

"Well, she did."

"We can't help it," said Turly.

"You can't, dear; but I can. I'm older than you."

"The hens won't do it for you, no matter how old you are," said Turly.

"Oh!" said Terry impatiently, "that is not what I mean! There's a few hens down at Connolly's farm, and Nancy thinks they lay."

"Where is Connolly's farm?"

"I'm sure I don't know, but there are hens there, real industrious hens, and I want to get their eggs for Gran'ma."

"You can't," said Turly.

"Wait till you see," said Terry.

Turly looked at his sister admiringly, but went on piling up the difficulties she was going to surmount.

"You don't know where Connolly's farm is. And when you do, the hens are not yours. Connolly wants to eat his own eggs. Perhaps he's got a gran'ma."

"No, he hasn't. And he would rather have money than eggs. At least poor people generally do."

"How do you know he is poor?"

"Oh, Turly, how you do keep contradicting! Now I'll tell you what I am going to do. I'll just get out the pony quite early in the morning and ride to Connolly's farm, and be back with the eggs for Gran'ma's breakfast."

Turly opened his eyes wide with admiration, but he was not convinced.

"Somebody will be sure to be angry," he said, "and there will be a row."

"But you know it couldn't be wrong, Turly, because it is for Gran'ma. And I'm not going to bring the pony up the stairs, and it won't be wet, because it's just nice frosty weather—"

"Connolly's farm is awfully far away. I'm sure it is," said Turly. "You'll never get back here for breakfast."

"But I shall start quite, quite early."

"It will be dark."

"There's ever so much moonlight at six," said Terry. "I was awake this morning, and I saw it. I was just longing to get up and go off for a ride, and now there will be a real reason for doing it."

"I will go with you," said Turly, suddenly changing his front.

"Oh, no, you couldn't, Turly! There is only one pony. You must stay behind, and if there's any fuss because I'm a little late or something, you can tell them I've gone for the eggs and will be back directly."

Nurse came in and took them off to bed, but Terry kept thinking of her morning adventure. She did not think of it as an adventure, but as a delightful surprise for Gran'ma.

"She does so much for us," thought Terry, "and we can do so little for her! And she will find it so nice to have a good fresh egg for breakfast!"

Still Terry felt it would never do to tell Nursey of her intentions. She would be sure to think that everything would go wrong. Rain would come on, or Connolly's really wouldn't have any eggs, or the pony would go lame. But won't she smile up all over when she sees Gran'ma eating her fresh egg at breakfast-time!

The greatest dread Terry felt was of oversleeping herself. She fell asleep as soon as her head was on the pillow, but wakened with a start as the clock was striking three. She could hear Nurse snoring through the wall, and Nurse Nancy had a most peculiar snore, first a long-drawn note, as of a horn, and then a little whistle.

"I wonder how she does it," said Terry to herself, and tried to imitate the sounds. "I couldn't. It's awfully clever of her. And when you see her going about in the daytime you would never think she could do it."

Terry thought it would be quite easy to lie awake, waiting, for three hours. However, after listening for about five minutes to Nursey's snoring, and blowing through her own little nose to try to do the same, she was fast asleep again.

She wakened again exactly at a quarter to six. The moonlight was now pouring into the room, and she could see everything as well as if by day. She got up and went out to the landing to look at the clock, and stood there in her white night-dress, with her little bare toes on the carpet, gazing at the solemn white face of the tall brown clock which Granny said had stood there just as she was for quite two hundred years. It was impossible not to think of this clock as a personage, and she was accustomed to change her character very much as Terry changed her moods. Sometimes she was a cheery old creature, hurrying on the time with her pleasant chimes, coaxing round the sunshine out of the dark, and bringing back the cosy bed-time when children were tired. At other times she had the air of a stern prophetess, with a threat in every "tick, tick", and a hint of doom in the striking of every hour. As she stood now in her brown cloak darkened by the moonlight, and her round meaningless face whitened by it, she recalled to Terry a remark once made by Granny, "Many a life she has ticked away out of this house, and out of this world, has that old great-grandfather's clock, my children!"

"She sha'n't tick my life away," thought Terry. "I hope she won't tick away Gran'ma's and Nursey's! But that is nonsense, of course. Granny couldn't have meant that she had anything to do with it, for that is only God's business!"

These ideas just flashed through Terry's little head as she stared at the clock and heard her give that curious snarl with which she always warned one that there were but three minutes left of the passing hour. And the hour hand was at six.

It was just the time for Terry. She dressed quickly, putting on the little riding-skirt that she had brought from Africa. It was some inches shorter than it had been then; but never mind, it was all right.

"I don't believe anybody gets up till seven these winter mornings," she reflected, and certainly the house was quite still as she slipped out, and, knowing where to find the stable-keys, she was soon in the stable. She put her own little saddle on the pony and led him from the yard, leaving the keys in the doors, because it was morning, and there was no more use in locking up the places.

Away went Terry trotting down the avenue, full of the enthusiasm of her good intentions. She was soon out on the high-road. There was a crisp, white frost on the grass, but the middle of the road was not at all slippy. The pony went at a good pace, and soon carried her a couple of miles away from home. All this time Terry thought of nothing but the enjoyment of her ride, and of that basket of eggs she was going to carry home to Gran'ma.

Presently the moon set, and there was scarcely a glimmer of daylight, but a great deal of frosty fog. Up to this Terry had been allowing the highway to carry her anywhere it pleased, but now at last she came to four cross-roads, all seeming to lead into fogland, and she stopped short.