Turning from the sea, the wagons followed a rutted cart-track that wound downhill in a slow arc between an orchard hedge and an open meadow dotted with cattle.  High beyond the orchard rose a cluster of elms, around which many rooks were cawing, and between the elms a blue smoke drifted.  There too the grey roof of the farmhouse crept little by little into sight; and so they came to a second gate and the rick-yard; and beyond the ricks was a whitewashed doorway, where a smiling elderly woman stood to welcome them.  This was Mrs. Tossell, forewarned many minutes since by their singing.

She had come straight from preparing the feast, and her face was yet flushed with the heat of the kitchen fire.  The arrival of the extra mouths to be fed did not put her out in the least.  But she looked the children over with eyes at once benevolent and critical—­their clothes and their faces—­and said frankly that they wanted a wash, which was only too evident, the Evan Evans being a peculiarly grimy boat, even for a collier.

“The sooner the better,” agreed Tilda with the utmost alacrity.

“Well, and I’m glad you take it like that,” said their hostess, nodding approval.  She called “Hepsy!  Hepsy!” and an elderly serving-woman answered the summons.  “Run, Hepsy, and fill the wash-house boiler,” she commanded.

Within twenty minutes two long wash-trays stood ready and steaming—­one for Tilda in the wash-kitchen itself, the other for Arthur Miles in a small outhouse adjoining; and while the children revelled in this strange new luxury, Mrs. Tossell bethought her of certain garments in a press upstairs—­a frock and some underclothing long since outgrown by Sabina, a threadworn shirt and a suit that had formerly habited Obed, her youngest, all preserved and laid away on the principle (as she put it) that “Store is no Sore.”

It was Chrissy, the pretty girl, who carried his clean garments to Arthur Miles; and he, being caught naked in the wash-tub, blushed furiously.  But Chrissy was used to brothers, and took stock of him composedly.

“My!” she exclaimed, “what pretty white skin you’ve got!” And with that her quick eyes noted the mark on his shoulder.  “Well, I never—­but that’s funny!”

“What’s funny?” asked the boy.

“I’ll tell you later, in the kitchen,” she promised, and went off to Tilda.

The kitchen was of noble size—­far larger even than the refectory at Holy Innocents’ Orphanage—­and worthy of the feast Mrs. Tossell had arrayed there to celebrate the sheep-bringing.  The table, laden with hot pies, with dishes of fried rasher and hog’s-puddings, black-puddings, sausages, with cold ham and cold ribs of beef, with apple tarts, junkets, jellies, syllabubs, frumenties, with mighty tea-pots and flagons of cider, ran close alongside the window-seat where the children were given their places, and whence, turning their heads, they looked out upon a garden set with clipped