beady black, bright and quick, and surrounded by a hundred finest
wrinkles, that all the smiles of her life had made. Her mouth was pursed
up like a button, out of which her words came shooting, quick and bright
and merry.

Eric stood looking at her, not thinking to say anything. So after the
briefest pause she went on, peeping into the pot.

"I see you have some mush here, so as I've come all the way from the
farm and am ready for a second breakfast after my tussle with the wind,
I'll share it with you. Or perhaps you have had yours already."

"No, no," cried Eric, suddenly remembering how hungry he was and hoping
she would not take it all. "I have just waked up."

"So. Then we'll breakfast together," and away she flew to the cupboard
again and brought out a second bowl and spoon. Then she stirred the mush
round and round a few times and dished it up. Eric noticed that she
divided it exactly evenly. She flooded both bowls with cream, and
together they sat down to it. What a good breakfast that was, and how
fast the little old woman talked!

But in spite of all her talking and flying around she had looked Eric up
and down and through and through, and made up her mind what kind of a
person he was. What she saw was a pale little boy of nine in a ragged
shirt and trousers, and barefooted. His hair was shaggy and unbrushed
but tossed back from a wide brow. His mouth was sullen. But she forgot
all about shabby clothes, unbrushed hair, and sullen mouth when she came
to his eyes. They were wide and clear, and returned the old woman's keen
glance with a gaze of steady interest. Sullen and pale, but