Delsie by Joan Smith

too late. There was no need to be up at seven. She would read till midnight. She was relaxed, happy, looking forward to the shopping trip tomorrow, when she extinguished her lamp at midnight and fell into that light doze that precedes sleep. Before she was quite unconscious, her arm was rudely jostled. She jumped in her bed, her heart pound ing.
    “They’re back,” a soft voice said, giggling at her alarm.
    “Oh, it’s you, Bobbie,” Delsie said, shaking herself awake. “You frightened the life out of me. Who is back? What’s the matter?” she asked, thinking in her confusion that the Bristcombes had been out, and that was why the house had been plunged into darkness when she returned.
    “The pixies,” Bobbie said.
    “Poor dear, you’ve had a bad dream. There are no pixies tonight. Were you frightened? Come and get into bed with me if you like. There’s plenty of room.”
    Bobbie took immediate advantage of this tempting suggestion, and popped in with her stepmother. They were both sleepy, and were about to nod off when a slight sound was heard from the window. “It’s the pixies, Mama. I told you they were back,” Bobbie said, yawning in mid-sentence, as she snuggled deeper into the bed, no longer afraid of the pixies when she had protection.
    Mrs. Grayshott listened, soon incontrovertibly aware that something was going forward in the orchard beyond her window. That it was either pixies or the ghost of her late husband never so much as occurred to her. It was only the ignorant, superstitious folks such as the Bristcombes who believed in pixies and putting a dish of salt by a corpse to prevent its rising. The sounds obviously came from a live, human trespasser, whose identity interested her.
    She slid quietly from her bed to avoid waking the child, who was already breathing deeply, asleep. Tiptoeing to the window, she pulled back the curtains and strained her eyes out into the darkness. Nothing was visible. There was no moon, and the phalanx of low, spreading apple trees successfully concealed whatever was causing the noise. For some minutes Delsie remained, looking and wondering. She quietly opened the casement window and stuck her head out. The noises were more easily audible now, though they were still low noises, as of stealthy movement. She could hear the rattle of a harness, or chain, and the soft clop of hooves, moving slowly forward. Some indistinguishable sounds of human voices too, male voices, she knew. Men were in the orchard, with a horse or horses. What could it mean? The only con clusion she could come to was that some poor neighbors were stealing apples. The crop surely had been har vested by such a late date, but the windfalls perhaps were being taken up by some poor family. With a shrug of her shoulders, she closed the window and climbed back into the warm bed, not unduly disturbed, but determined to check the next morning to see if she could discover trace of the intruders. Familiar with the pinch of poverty, she did not begrudge the taking of the apples, but she would prefer in future that permission be asked. Foolish of them to have waited so long, too— December. The apples must be inedible by now.
    There was no sleeping in, the next morning, with a wide-awake six-year-old in her bed, eager to be up and doing. The girl was up bright and early. Glancing at her watch, Delsie saw it was only seven. How quickly she had become accustomed to the luxury of sleeping in! But rest was impossible with the wiggling child hinting every minute that it was bright, so she dragged herself out of bed, and put on her frock while Bobbie skipped down the hall to dress herself. With a pang of sympathy for the lower orders, she told the girl not to awaken her governess. However, when Bobbie returned to her, her braids were neatly made up, and clearly it had not been her own childish fingers that had formed them so well.
    They went belowstairs, to find no breakfast awaiting them at such an hour. Mrs. Bristcombe