[Bêthberry]

Two women, one elderly, the other of indeterminate age, sat in a small alcove with full glass doors that gave out onto the back of the White Horse Inn. Through them could be seen a row of young apple trees, maybe ten feet high. If one were close to them, one could see tiny buds appearing on the branches, but from the Inn they still appeared like dark skeletons against the sky, branches leafless and budless.

The women's eyes turned back towards the Inn, watching the partons congregate.

"More people from distant lands appear these days, " observed the older woman, her grey hair plaited in thins rounds about her head, her shoulders stooped from toil, but her eyes still bright with shrewd life and wit.

The other woman turned to her, her face now showing a few lines of wrinkles about her mouth and her eyes holding a solemn air of composure mixed with sadness.

"You still find hobbits fascinating, Ruthven?" Bethberry asked.

"Indeed, I still do. They remind me in some ways of Madi--not all, but some."

"I wonder what he would think of your observation."

Ruthven laughed. "He would snort indignantly and tell me my eyes are failing."

Bethberry smiled. "Well, we shall have to get to know more hobbits like this one. I think Aedre told me his name is Harold Brandybuck."

Ruthven did not answer. Instead, the two women sipped their tea, enjoying each other's company.

"I'm glad Oin found the Horse," remarked Bethberry after some time. "He looked a bit forelorn and lost when I first saw him. "

The sun shone through the full panes of glass, warming the women and outlinging their figures with light.