Mrs. Blunt said she would, and Meg went away to her bread.
That did not take her half-an-hour, but when she came down the woman had done her best to smarten up her room. The little hurt child had had its hands washed, and was now fast asleep, and the woman herself looked three degrees fresher than when Meg left her.
"I have brought half-a-pound of oatmeal if you will accept it," she said, entering, with her clean cooking apron still on, and her neat hair uncovered by her hat.
"It's very kind, I'm sure," said the woman. "Now you must show me the right way, and then I shall know."
"Is the water boiling yet?" asked Meg, seating herself near the fire and peeping into the steaming saucepan.
"That it is! Don't it look like it?"
"Because it must boil," explained Meg, "or the oatmeal would sink to the bottom and burn."
"Oh, that's the reason?"
"Yes; and I've brought down my wooden spoon in case you had not got one. The iron ones get so hot."
"Must it be stirred all the time?"