“I’ll go in first, shall I?” he said. “There’s no light in the passage, and you might fall over something.”
Jack and Molly followed him into the house, and stood hesitating on the mat while he strode down the passage and opened a door at the farther end. A dim light crept out and thinned the darkness. From the room came a low murmur in familiar tones.
“Come along,” called Glan. “Would you mind just shutting the front door. Thanks very much.”
It was a small room at the end of the passage with a round table in the centre of it on which stood a shaded lamp. At the table sat Glan’s father with his elbows resting on a large open book in front of him, while his hands, held to the sides of his head, covered his ears; an expression of profound melancholy was on his face as he gazed at the children on their entrance. Bending over the fireplace was a genial, comfortable-looking, elderly woman, who was stirring something in a saucepan.
“Bless their hearts, how tired they look,” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of the children’s faces.
“It’s the little lady and her brother that I told you about, Aunt Janet,” said Glan. “Is everything ready for them?”
“Yes, my dear,” replied Aunt Janet. “The beds is sweet and aired, and there’s a bowl of hot broth for both of them, bless their innocent souls, which’ll be cooked in a minute or two. Sit you down, dearies, and rest yourselves, and Aunt Janet’ll have things ready in no time for you.”
“They’re sure to be tired,” said Glan. “They were chased up the hill by the Pumpkin,” he added in a lower voice.
But his father had heard. “What was that?” he asked mournfully, taking his hands down from his ears.
So Glan had to explain to him the incident at the gate, and how the Pumpkin nearly got in. The old man listened intently, groaning every time Glan paused for breath, and rolling his eyes whenever the Pumpkin was mentioned by name. At the end of the story he hastily stopped his ears again, and bent over his book muttering faintly that he “couldn’t abide that bell ringing.”