"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.