As there was no one left for him to talk to, Trenholme grew more observant.  He remarked the sweetness and sense in the face of the house-mother as she bestowed their suppers upon the children.  She was still comparatively young, but there was no beauty of youth about her, only the appearance of strength that is produced by toil and endurance before these two have worn the strength away.  But, in spite of this look of strength, the face was not hard—­no, nor sad; and there was a certain latent poetry, too, about the gesture and look with which she gave food to the little ones, as if the giving and receiving were a free thing, and not the mere necessity of life.  Her manner of giving them supper was to push the large pan of curded milk close to the edge of the table, where the little ones were clustered, and let them, four of them at once, lap out of the side of it with their little spoons.  At the same time she pushed the creasy yellow cover of cream to the farther side, with a watchful glance at Trenholme’s saucer, evidently meaning that it was kept for him.  She and the elder boy and girl waited to sup till the little ones had finished.

Trenholme endeavoured to say that he should not want any more cream, but she did not understand his words.  He would have felt more concerned at the partiality shown him if the youngsters had looked more in need of cream; but they were, in truth, so round-faced and chubby, and so evidently more pleased to stare at him with their big, black eyes than grieved to lose the richest part of their milk, that he felt distress would have been thrown way.  All four little ones wore round knitted caps, and their little heads, at uneven heights, their serious eyes rolling upon him, and their greedy little mouths supping in the milk the while, formed such an odd picture round the white disk of the milk-pan that Trenholme could not help laughing.  The greedy little feeders, without dropping their spoons, looked to their mother to see whether they ought to be frightened or not at such conduct on the stranger’s part, but seeing her smile, they concluded that they were safe.

Upon Trenholme’s making further overtures of friendship, one or two of them began to smile:  the smile was infectious, it spread to all four, and they began to laugh, and laughed in baby fashion quite immoderately.  Their mother considered this a sign that they had had enough, and took their spoons from them.  As they scattered from the table Trenholme perceived that, though their heads were covered, their feet were not.  Their whole costume consisted of a short blue cotton nightgown and the little knitted cap.

When Turrif came in to say that the horse was ready, Trenholme made an effort to present his thanks in saying good-bye to the mistress of the house, but she did not seem to expect or take much notice of these manners.  As he went out of the door he looked back to see her bending over the baby in the cradle, and he noticed for the first time that above the cradle there was a little shrine fastened to the wall.  It was decked with a crucifix and paper flowers; above was a coloured picture of the Virgin.