“You can’t come here,” said the innkeeper, looking at us with great distrust.

The major, whom Jo had “bothered,” came in.  “You must take these people,” he said, and asked various searching questions about the rooms.

Reluctantly the truth came out that if the whole family slept in one room there would be one for us.  The major ordered them to do it.  Jo wished she hadn’t “bothered” him quite so gruffly.

The daughters stamped about, furiously pulling all the blankets off the two beds, while one of them stood in the doorway watching us to see that we did not secrete the greasy counterpanes.  Several of the party sat, hair on end, with staring eyes, too tired to shut them.

“Food?”

“Nema Nishta,” was the response.

“Can we boil water?”

“No.”

“Where can we boil it?”

“Nowhere.”

“But there is a fire in the kitchen,” we said, pointing to a hooded fireplace where a few sticks were burning.

“Why shouldn’t they boil water?” said a kindly looking man.

“Well, I suppose they can,” said the old woman, who became almost pleasant over the kitchen fire—­telling Jo she was sixty and only a stara Baba (old granny).

Miss Brindley made tea.  We cheered as she brought it in.  Tea, bully beef, and our last biscuits comprised our dinner, which we ate in big gulps, after which we sang “Three blind mice” as a digestive.

The half-open door was full of peering faces, so somewhat encouraged we gave them a selection of rounds.

We left next morning early in a heavy downpour, after being exorbitantly charged, glad to leave Jabooka for ever.

The professor was before us, an aged red Riding Hood, clad in his scarlet blanket.  The day was long and uneventful.  Trudge, trudge, splash, splash.  The dividing line between snow and rain still was heavily marked, but it sleeted and our hands were quite numbed.  We crossed an angry stream on a greasy pole and most of us splashed in.  Whatmough stood in the water, remarking, “I’m wet and I’ll get no wetter,” and helped people across.  Again after dark we arrived at Lieva Rieka, to find our dirty old inn again; but it had a real iron stove which gave out a glorious heat, and we crowded around in the ill-lit room, clouds of steam arising from us.  We tried to dry our stockings against the stove pipe, but the old mother did not approve.  She was afraid of fire.  When she ran out of the room, socks were pressed surreptitiously against the pipe with a “sizz,” and when she returned, innocent looking people were standing against the wall, no socks to be seen.

The eldest daughter settled down with her head in Jo’s hip, having failed to get Miss Brindley alongside.  She gazed longingly at Miss Brindley from Jo’s lap, and asking for all the data possible as to her life.

“A devoika (girl), free, travelling from a country so far away that it would take three months in an oxcart to get there.”