tin basin. Dip your head in. Rosa, give your father the towel.
Everything ready except the trousers. I haven't had time to shorten them.
You must tuck the ends into your boots until we get there."

"Nu," said the Herr, "there isn't room to turn. I want the light. You go
and dress in the passage."

Dressing in the dark was nothing to Frau Brechenmacher. She hooked her
skirt and bodice, fastened her handkerchief round her neck with a beautiful
brooch that had four medals to the Virgin dangling from it, and then drew
on her cloak and hood.

"Here, come and fasten this buckle," called Herr Brechenmacher. He stood
in the kitchen puffing himself out, the buttons on his blue uniform shining
with an enthusiasm which nothing but official buttons could possibly
possess. "How do I look?"

"Wonderful," replied the little Frau, straining at the waist buckle and
giving him a little pull here, a little tug there. "Rosa, come and look at
your father."

Herr Brechenmacher strode up and down the kitchen, was helped on with his
coat, then waited while the Frau lighted the lantern.

"Now, then--finished at last! Come along."

"The lamp, Rosa," warned the Frau, slamming the front door behind them.

Snow had not fallen all day; the frozen ground was slippery as an icepond.
She had not been out of the house for weeks past, and the day had so