“Get me some hot water.”

Only too glad to be able to do anything to help, Kitty ran off; but to run for hot water was one thing, to get it was quite another.  The fire was out, the kitchen was littered with dishes and pots and pans, and Fanny the cook, with a dirty apron on and no cap, was fast asleep in her chair by the window, just as though she had not a care or a duty in the world.  The squalor and muddle of the whole place could not fail to strike any one, even casual Kitty; and to her it brought a deeper feeling, one of trouble and remorse, for, in response to her own pleading, her father had made her his housekeeper—­and this was how she had fulfilled her duties!  In fact, she had given herself no duties; she had shirked them.  She had left everything to the servants, and as long as she had been free and untroubled, and meals of a kind had been served at more or less regular intervals, had bothered no further.

“Fanny!” she called sharply, “do wake up!  Why haven’t you got a fire, and a kettle boiling?”

Fanny awoke with a start, which in itself is enough to make a person cross; and to have been caught asleep, with her work not done, made her crosser.  “I don’t want a great fire burning on a hot afternoon like this,” she answered sharply.  “You wouldn’t like it yourself if you had to sit by it, Miss Kitty; and if it’s your tea you’m wanting, well, it isn’t tea-time yet.  When ’tis, you will find ’tis ready.”

“Um—­m!” said Kitty loftily, in a tone that expressed most emphatic doubt of Fanny’s statement.

“What is it you’re routing about in the cupboards for, miss?  I don’t like to have folks coming into my kitchen, turning everything over and rummaging round.  I shan’t know where to find a thing when I wants to.  What is it you’m looking for?”

“The methylated spirit and the little stove,” said Kitty.  “I must have some hot water, Fanny, and quickly.  Father wants some.  There has been an accident.”

Fanny changed her tone, and her expression grew a little milder.  “We haven’t got a leak, miss.  We ran out of it a week ago.  I told Emily to tell you—­but there, I might as well talk to the wind as talk to her—­”

“Oh dear,” interrupted Kitty, “whatever shall I do?  Jabez is bleeding so he will bleed to death—­”

“Jabez!  Oh my!  Whatever has happened, Miss Kitty?” Suddenly Fanny’s whole manner changed to one of anxious eagerness and deep concern.  “Is it—­is it dangerous, miss?  How did it happen?  What’s he done?” Fanny had been so sound asleep that she had not noticed the noise in the yard, or the little procession pass the kitchen window on its way to the study.

“I don’t think it is very bad,” said Kitty.  “Dan threw a piece of wood, and it—­it hit Jabez on the forehead, and—­and oh, Fanny, what will father think?  I believe he is angry with us already, and you know he was out all night and is very tired, and he will be more angry if there’s no hot water or anything he wants, and I—­I did so want to help him.”