"Nip in front o' me," said the woman, "and be quick, then! First
turnin' to the right down the stairs, an' don't clatter yer boots."

Tilda obeyed breathlessly, and found herself in a dark stone stairway.
It led down steeply to the basement, and here her guide overtook and
stepped ahead of her. They passed through two dirty kitchens, through a
wash-house littered with damp linen and filled with steam from a copper
in the corner, and emerged upon a well-court foetid with sink-water and
decaying scraps of vegetables. They had met no one on their way, and it
crossed Tilda's mind--but the thought was incredible--that Sarah Huggins
served this vast barracks single-handed. A flight of stone steps led up
from this area to the railed coping twenty feet aloft, where the sky
shone pure and fresh.

"Up there, an' you 're in the garden." Tilda ran, so fast that at the
head of the steps she had to clutch at the railing and draw breath.

The garden, too, was deserted. A gravelled path, scarcely four feet
wide, ran straight to the end of it, and along this she hurried, not
daring to look back, but aware that all the back windows were following
her--watching and following her--with horrible curtainless eyes.

The garden, planted for utility, was passably well kept. It contained,
in all its parcelled length, not a single flower. At the very end a few
currant bushes partially hid the front of the shed and glass-house.
They were the one scrap of cover, and when she reached them she had a
mind to crouch and hide, if only for a moment, from the staring windows.

Her own eyes, as she passed these bushes, were fastened on the shed.
But it seemed that someone else had discovered shelter here; for with a