But Barnabas was already in the kitchen issuing commands to Sally.
“Bread, Sally, quick. Cut it in small pieces and put them in a saucepan with lots of milk. Is there a good fire? Yes. Ever made bread and milk in your life before?” And Sally flew round.
Ten minutes later Barnabas and Miss Mason were feeding a small famished girl, who was looking at them as if they were gods from another world, and at the bread and milk as if it were the nectar and ambrosia they had brought with them.
And when the blue basin was empty Barnabas lifted Pippa in his arms, and guided by Miss Mason, carried her into the inner room, and laid her like a little broken poppy in Miss Mason’s bed. Together they tucked her in, and saw the white eyelids close slowly over the great grey eyes.
Then they went out into the studio. And Barnabas threw the man’s coat and hat, and the old boots into a corner. The other garments he put on the model stand.
“I shall come back by and by,” he said, “and see how the small creature is getting on.”
He looked in twice during the day to find that she was still asleep. It was after sunset when he came the third time, and it was to find her sitting near the fire eating a delicious brown egg and slices of bread and butter, while Miss Mason was telling her that most entrancing of fairy tales—“The Sleeping Beauty.”
Barnabas sat down and waited. Every now and then he looked at the child with a puzzled expression in his eyes. Suddenly he threw back his head. He very nearly whistled. Something that had eluded him had been discovered.
The egg and the story were finished. There came a silence.
The child’s eyes wandered round the studio. They lighted on the faded green dress lying on the model stand. A queer little look of sadness that should be foreign to a child’s face crept back into her eyes.