The woman made a wry face. "Law, my dear, they wouldn't touch it!" "I think they would if it were made nicely." "I'm sure you've been so kind and clever, that I ought to think of what you say," apologized the woman; "but I'm afraid--" "What have you for dinner to-day, if I may ask?" said Meg, hesitating, in her shy way. "Bread," answered the mother emphatically; "and I meant to pour some boiling water on it, and put some salt, and make believe it was soup. It's so bitter cold to-day." "I wonder if you'd be offended if I offered to make some porridge for you?" "I shan't be _offended_; but I know they won't touch it!" Meg laughed. "You see!" she said brightly. "Tell them a friend brought them some, and you give them their choice of that or bread, and I expect--" "I haven't any oatmeal," said the woman. "But I have; I'll go and fetch some. My husband has it every day for breakfast." "You don't say so!" exclaimed the woman. "But I must make my bread first, for if I don't it will not have time to rise. When I have done that I'll bring the oatmeal down with me, and make it for them. Will you let me?" The woman thanked her; but before Meg went up to her bread she requested that a saucepan of water might be put over the fire instead of the kettle, which the woman had already put on for the early dinner. "Will you mind measuring the water into it?" asked Meg; "eight half-pints is what I want, and a good teaspoonful of salt." Mrs. Blunt said she would, and Meg went away to her bread. That did not take her half-an-hour, but when she came down the woman had done her best to smarten up her room. The little hurt child had had its hands washed, and was now fast asleep, and the woman herself looked three degrees fresher than when Meg left her. "I have brought half-a-pound of oatmeal if you will accept it," she said, entering, with her clean cooking apron still on, and her neat hair uncovered by her hat. "It's very kind, I'm sure," said the woman. "Now you must show me the right way, and then I shall know." "Is the water boiling yet?" asked Meg, seating herself near the fire and peeping into the steaming saucepan. "That it is! Don't it look like it?" "Because it must boil," explained Meg, "or the oatmeal would sink to the bottom and burn." "Oh, that's the reason?" "Yes; and I've brought down my wooden spoon in case you had not got one. The iron ones get so hot." "Must it be stirred all the time?" "Oh no, every now and then. See, I'm going to sprinkle in the oatmeal with my hand. If I put it in all at once it would fall into lumps, and children hate lumps! At least _I_ did when I was a child." Mrs. Blunt stood by watching. "And how much do ye pay a pound for it, Mrs. Seymour?" "Twopence-halfpenny where Jem gets it." "What do ye eat it with? I've heard tell of treacle, but I'm no hand at sweet things myself."