When the door swung open, however, and a beaked-nosed woman, absurdly like the witch of the fairy story, confronted the girls, Beryl stood tongue-tied and Robin had to come to the rescue.
"Can we—if you please, we had an accident—I mean, we went for a walk—oh, may we have a drink of water?" she floundered, fairly blinking before the sharply piercing eyes of the woman in the door.
"Who is it, Brina?" came from within, whereupon the woman answered in rapid German, her head turned backward over her shoulder, her hand still on the doorknob.
"Shame on you, Brina. They are two children—lost, perhaps. Let them come in."
The room was disappointingly like any other old country-house living room; scrupulously clean and shining, a wide fireplace aglow with a wood fire that cast bright splotches of color over the low walls, the faded rag rugs, the piece-work cushions on the old wooden settle.
Close to its warmth sat a white-haired woman, one long thin hand supporting her head in such a way as to keep her face in a shadow.
"IT'S LIKE THE HOUSE OF BREAD AND CAKE"
Robin explained their presence in the lane, incoherently, for there was something frightening about the silent, composed figure and the intentness with which those shadowed eyes scrutinized her. While Robin talked, Beryl swiftly surveyed the room and its occupants, not least of which was a great St. Bernard dog, that, after one "gr'f'f" leaned against his mistress' chair and regarded the intruders with watchful eyes as though to reserve advances, friendly or hostile.