“Dear me!” she said, glancing around on these reflections, “I’ll have to turn you out again while I undress.  But that won’t take long, and you’ll be safe enough beneath the van.”

So after providing them with a hunk of cake apiece from one of the sideboard lockers, and peeping forth to make sure the coast was clear, she dismissed them with instructions to creep into the darkness under the steps, and there lie quiet until she summoned them.

Ten minutes later she leaned forth again and called “Coo-ee!” very softly, and they returned to find her in the white bed, recumbent in a coquettish nightgown.  She had folded and stowed her day garments away—­ Tilda could not imagine where—­and a mattress and rugs lay on the floor, ready spread for the children.  Nor was this all.  On the sideboard stood a plateful of biscuits, and on the stove a spirit-lamp, with a kettle already beginning to sing, and a teapot and three cups and saucers.

With a turn of the hand, scarcely stirring from her recumbent posture, the Fat Lady closed the door and shot its small brass bolt.  Then with a quick series of movements, reaching forward as soon as the kettle boiled, she filled the teapot, emptied the rest of the boiling water into the flashing nickel basin of the washstand, set down the kettle, turned and shut a cold-water tap, and invited the children to wash before supping.

The aroma of the tea—­real China tea it was—­and the fragrance of scented soap—­genuine Old Brown Windsor—­went straight through their senses to the children’s hearts.  In all their lives they had known no experience so delicious.

Mrs. Lobb noted with approval that the boy drew aside and yielded Tilda the first turn at the basin.  When his came she watched him, and by and by observed, “He washes like a gentleman, too.”

“Not,” she explained as the children drank their tea—­“not that I have ever seen a gentleman wash.  But women know what’s dainty.”  Here she fell into a muse.  “I’ve often pictered Mr. Lobb washing.  These little things make so much difference.”  She sighed.  “Well now, if you’ve finished your supper, we’ll say our prayers and get to sleep.”

“Prayers?” queried Tilda.

As a rule, when anything happened outside her experience she sat quiet and let it happen, reserving criticism.  But, chancing to look up, she had seen the boy wince at the word.

Mrs. Lobb, less observant, had taken down a Bible from the shelf above her.  She opened it and read—­

    ’And they departed from Kibroth-hattaavah, and encamped at
    Hazeroth.  And they departed from Hazeroth, and pitched in Rithmah. 
    And they departed from Rithmah, and pitched at Rimmoth-parez—­’

“It don’t always apply,” she explained, breaking off, “but takin’ it straight through, you’d be surprised how often it sends you to sleep with a bit of comfort.”

She read half a dozen verses, closed the book, and recited the Lord’s Prayer—­