Dick's Desertion by Marjorie Pickthall — Read

Mr. Collinson pulled the red handkerchief from his grey head and broad / weather-beaten face, and crossing the room, threw a handful of pine / splinters on the fire. It was a fire such as one seldom or never sees / nowadays. First came the great back log, some four feet long and / twenty inches thick; then upon the "dogs" were laid sticks of the same / length, but only about six inches in diameter; and lastly, upon these, / a mighty pile of pieces of pine and various chips of wood. In those / days, fire-building was an art. The flames leapt up, and caught the / handful of pine chips into a blaze of heat and brightness, which showed / every corner of the room. It was a large and cheerful room, with two / windows which now were covered with red cotton blinds. The walls were / of smooth match-boarding, and a few gay water-colour sketches and old / portraits in little oval brass frames were tacked upon them. The / furniture was rough and home-made, but comfortable; and in a corner, / partly hidden with a red cotton curtain, three cot-bedsteads, covered / with red quilts, were trying hard to pretend they were sofas.

It was a cheerful room; and most of the people in it were cheerful too. / Mr. Collinson was cheerful certainly; and Mrs. Collinson, small and / round, with cheeks as pink as roses, seemed made for tender words and / smiling. Two tall lads of eighteen, twins, stood before the blazing / fire, and their faces were as broad and merry as anyone could desire. / Perhaps the only faces in the room that bore shadows in them were those / of Dick and Stephanie.