Finishing her last mouthful of toast and home-made blackberry jam, Sunday stood up and looked towards the window. ‘It’s gone very quiet and grey,’ she remarked, staring up at the sky.

‘It has that.’ Cissie drained her cup and reluctantly got up from the table, forcing her feet back into her shoes. ‘George reckons we’ll have snow afore much longer so the children will be wanting the sleds out then. Despite meself I allus think there’s something quite magical about a white Christmas.’

‘You old romantic you,’ Sunday chuckled, then leaving Cissie to her chores she went through the green baize door into the corridor just as Miss Lark emerged from the room where she had been giving Kitty her singing lesson.

‘Ah, Mrs Branning,’ she twittered and Sunday had to make a conscious effort not to laugh. Everything about the tiny little woman reminded her of a little bird, like her name. ‘Kitty is doing extraordinarily well. I was only saying to Mrs Lockett the other day I think she’s ready to join the church choir now – if you have no objections. She really does have the voice of an angel.’

She blinked her faded blue eyes, and as her hand rose to pat her grey hair, which was coiled in a plait around the crown of her head, Sunday was once again reminded of a little bird about to take flight. One of these days she was sure that Miss Lark would sprout wings.

‘I have no objections at all,’ she replied, managing to keep a straight face. ‘I shall speak to Verity about it at the earliest opportunity.’

Just then, Kitty came tearing out of the room only to skid to a halt when she saw Sunday and Miss Lark talking.

‘Sorry!’ She gave a smile that would have melted ice and Sunday bit her lip. The girl was so pretty that sometimes it frightened her. Whenever they went into town or out and about, people commented on her hair, or her perfect skin, or her eyes. Sunday had loved it when Kitty was little, but now that the girl was growing, she worried about what sort of attention she might attract from men. Still, she told herself, that wouldn’t be for a while yet and feeling happier, she then went off to fetch Miss Lark her fee as the teacher prepared to leave. On opening the front door for the little lady, she spied a familiar brown envelope, propped against the pillar where they had found the baby Kitty all those years ago.

Christmas that year was a joyous occasion and so was the party that Sunday and Tom held at Treetops on New Year’s Eve. Sunday’s only regret was that Mr and Mrs Dawes had declined their invitation, saying that they had already made previous arrangements, which meant that yet again Sunday would not get to spend time with Maggie. She saw very little of her apart from the few occasions when she had gone to the church in Mancetter that the Daweses attended, just to get a glimpse of the girl. On those occasions, Maggie had greeted her stiltedly, without warmth, and now Sunday was resigned to the fact that the girl was gone from her for good. Her loss still affected her in her quieter moments and she still worried about the child, but she had finally accepted that there was nothing to be done about it.