Vassilissa Beggoe was preserving the leaven for next week's breadmaking
by the simple process of placing it in a saucer of water, where it would
mildew in peace.

Vassilissa was the youngest of the four Beggoes,--only three years older
than Ishmael. She was the most like Archelaus in face, and showed
promise of a sleek, white and gold beauty to come; at present, being far
too tall for her age, she seemed unable to manage her long legs and
arms, but her movements had the graceful ungainliness of a young animal.
She was muffled in a dirty print pinafore, and above its faded blue her
neck looked a delicate privet-white, and would have looked whiter still
had it been cleaner. In the dusk her little pale head, the shape of it
clearly defined by the way in which she wore her hair sticking stiffly
out from her nape in two tiny plaits, took on a quality suggestive of a
frescoed angel--a delicately-modelled, faintly-shadowed quality that she
might miss in a stronger light. Putting the saucer of leaven on the
untidy dresser, she spoke over her shoulder to her mother.

"I be gwain to give myself a rub over and put on my Sunday gown. I be
gwain now."

Annie paused in the act of washing a plate, and let the film of dirty
water run off it into the pan again. Then she drew a deep breath, as
though the greasy-smelling steam that wavered up towards her nostrils
were the sweetest of incense. Vassilissa, who was accustomed to this
silent gathering of the forces before her mother broke into specially
impassioned speech, began calmly to untie her pinafore.

"That's right!" cried Annie, with sudden vigour; "go off and make
yourself fine, and lave me to wash all the cloam that's been standen' up