The major ordered them to do it. Jo
wished she hadn't "bothered" him quite so gruffly.
The daughters stamped about, furiously pulling all the blankets off the
two beds, while one of them stood in the doorway watching us to see that
we did not secrete the greasy counterpanes. Several of the party sat,
hair on end, with staring eyes, too tired to shut them.
"Food?"
"Nema Nishta," was the response.
"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.
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