she looked the
children over with eyes at once benevolent and critical--their clothes
and their faces--and said frankly that they wanted a wash, which was
only too evident, the _Evan Evans_ being a peculiarly grimy boat, even
for a collier.

"The sooner the better," agreed Tilda with the utmost alacrity.

"Well, and I'm glad you take it like that," said their hostess, nodding
approval. She called "Hepsy! Hepsy!" and an elderly serving-woman
answered the summons. "Run, Hepsy, and fill the wash-house boiler," she
commanded.

Within twenty minutes two long wash-trays stood ready and steaming--one
for Tilda in the wash-kitchen itself, the other for Arthur Miles in a
small outhouse adjoining; and while the children revelled in this
strange new luxury, Mrs. Tossell bethought her of certain garments in a
press upstairs--a frock and some underclothing long since outgrown by
Sabina, a threadworn shirt and a suit that had formerly habited Obed,
her youngest, all preserved and laid away on the principle (as she put
it) that "Store is no Sore."

It was Chrissy, the pretty girl, who carried his clean garments to
Arthur Miles; and he, being caught naked in the wash-tub, blushed
furiously. But Chrissy was used to brothers, and took stock of him
composedly.

"My!" she exclaimed, "what pretty white skin you've got!" And with that
her quick eyes noted the mark on his shoulder. "Well, I never--but
that's funny!"

"What's funny?" asked the boy.

"I'll tell you later, in the kitchen," she promised, and went off to
Tilda.

The kitchen was of noble size--far larger even than the refectory at
Holy Innocents' Orphanage--and worthy of the feast Mrs. Tossell had
arrayed there to celebrate the sheep-bringing. The table, laden with
hot pies, with dishes of fried rasher and hog's-puddings,
black-puddings, sausages, with cold ham and cold ribs of beef, with
apple tarts, junkets, jellies, syllabubs, frumenties, with mighty
tea-pots and flagons of cider, ran close alongside the window-seat where
the children were given their places, and whence, turning their heads,
they looked out upon a garden set with clipped box-trees, and bordered
with Michaelmas daisies, and upon a tall dove-cote of many holes and
ledges crowded with pigeons settling down to their night's rest. On the
outside of the table ran an unbacked bench, and at top and bottom stood
two ample elbowed chairs for the farmer and his wife; but Mrs. Tossell
had surrendered he