"Shall we?" whispered May, and, Josephine nodding assent, they followed Mrs. Rumbelow into the kitchen.
It was a very clean, tidy kitchen with a round deal table in the centre, a dresser holding cheap blue and white china, and a few wooden chairs. By the hearth, on which a cheerful log fire was burning, stood a wicker arm-chair, upholstered in a pretty rosy chintz, which looked quite new.
"Please sit down," said Mrs. Rumbelow hospitably. "Won't one of you take this chair? It's very comfortable."
She pointed at the wicker arm-chair as she spoke, but her visitors declined it. They seated themselves by the window, so that they might see when the rain stopped.
"It looks a delightfully comfortable chair," Josephine said with her bright, friendly smile; "won't you sit in it yourself, Mrs. Rumbelow, and talk to us? We seem to know you quite well, though we've never spoken to you before; we've heard of you from your niece, Jane. How is your rheumatism to-day?"
"Better than it has been, thank you, miss."
Mrs. Rumbelow had a pale, pinched-looking face which told of much suffering, and sunken eyes with a patient expression in them. She looked with great interest at her visitors, more especially at Josephine.
"Surely you didn't gather those yourself?" May asked, nodding at a bunch of primroses in a vase on the table.
"No, miss," was the reply; "my son picked them in Durley Dell this morning."
"Oh!" exclaimed May, "that's why we could find only these few buds then! When did your son come home, Mrs. Rumbelow?"