Never after could Claire recall in detail what followed.  She had a dim vision of glistening pavements on which the rain dashed furiously, only to rebound with resentful force, saturating one to the skin.  Of fierce blasts that seemed to lurk around every corner.  Of street-lamps gleaming meaninglessly out of the murk, curiously suggesting blinking eyes set in a vacant face, and at last—­at last—­in blessed contrast—­an open door, the sound of cheery voices, the feel of warmth and welcome, the sight of a plain, wholesome haven—­rest.

Martha Slawson checked her children’s vociferous clamor with a word.  Then her orders fell thick and fast, causing feet to run and hands to fly, causing curiosity to give instant way before the pressure of busy-ness, and a sense of cooperation to make genial the task of each.

“Hush, everybody!  Cora, you go make up the bed in the boarder’s room.  Turn the mattress, mind!  An’ stretch the sheets good an’ smooth, like I learned you to do.  Francie, you get the hot-water bottle, quick, so’s I can fill it!  Sammy, you go down to the cellar, an’ tell Mr. Snyder your mother will be much obliged if he’ll turn on a’ extra spark o’ steam-heat.  Tell’m, Mrs. Slawson has a lady come to board with her for a spell, that’s fixin’ for chills or somethin’, onless she can be kep’ warm an’ comfortable, an’ the radianator in the boarder’s room don’t send out much heat to speak of.  Talk up polite, Sammy; d’you hear me?  An’ be sure you don’t let on Snyder might be keepin’ a better fire in his furnace if he didn’t begrutch the coal so.  It’s gospel truth, o’ course, but landlords is supposed to have feelin’s, same as the rest of us, an’ a gentle word turneth aside wrath.  Sabina, now show what a big girl you are, an’ fetch mother Cora’s nicest nightie out o’ the drawer in my beaurer—­the nightie Mrs. Granville sent Cora last Christmas.  Mother wants to hang it in front of the kitchen-range, so’s the pretty lady can go by-bye all warm an’ comfy, after she’s took her supper off’n the tray, like Sabina did when she had the measles.”

Huge Sam Slawson, senior, overtopping his wife by fully half a head, gazed down upon his little hive, from shaggy-browed, benevolent eyes.  He uttered no complaint because his dinner was delayed, and he, hungry as a bear, was made to wait till a stranger was served and fed.  Instead, he wandered over to where Martha was supplementing “Ma’s” ministrations at the range, and patted her approvingly on the shoulder.

“Another stray lamb, mother?” he asked casually.

Martha nodded.  “Wait till the rush is over, an’ the young uns abed an’ asleep, an’ I’ll tell you all about it.  Stray lamb!  I should say as much!  A little white corset-lamb, used to eat out o’ your hand, with a blue ribbon round its neck.  Goin’ to be sent out to her death—­or worse, by a sharp-fangled wolf of a boardin’-house keeper, who’d gnaw the skin off’n your bones, an’ then crack the bones to get at the marrer, if you give her the chanct.  I’ll tell you all about it later, Sammy.”