She mentioned the incident to Kellock. “I haven’t seen him yet,” he said. “He hasn’t got work to his liking, so Knox tells me. I’m waiting to hear from him.” Two days later, Medora took her courage in her hands, and went up to the Mill at eleven o’clock, while work was in full swing. She had considered where to go, and decided that she would drop into the vat room and speak to Jordan about some trivial matter. She took an addition to his dinner in the shape of an orange. But having actually arrived, an inspiration led her to the sizing room. Thither came the paper from the drying lofts, and the simple work was done by little girls. No sharp word or unpleasant attitude of mind was likely to reach her there. She entered unseen, and passed through the dim and odorous chambers where the sizerman, old Amos Toft, mixed the medium. Here, in two steaming vats, Amos melted his gelatine, made of buffalo hide, and added to the strong-smelling concoction those ingredients proper to the paper to be sized. Trade secrets controlled the mixture, but alum contributed an important factor, for without it, the animal compound had quickly decayed. In the sizing room a narrow passage ran between long troughs. The place steamed to its lofty, sunny roof, and was soaked with the odour of the size. Through the great baths of amber-coloured liquid there wound an endless wool blanket, and at one end of each great bath sat two little girls with stacks of dry paper beside them. They disposed the sheets regularly two together on the sizing felt, and the paper was drawn into the vats and plunged beneath the surface. For nearly three minutes it pursued its invisible way, and presently, emerging at the other end, was lifted off by other young workers and returned to the drying lofts again. Little Mercy Life, the vatman’s daughter, was sizing some pretty, rose-coloured sheets, and Medora admired them. “Well, Mercy, how are you?” she asked, and the child smiled and said she was very well. “What lovely paper! And how are you, Nelly? How’s your sister?” “To home still,” said Mercy’s companion, “but the doctor says she’ll get well some day.” An impulse brought the orange out of Medora’s pocket. “Here’s something for you,” she said. “You can share it between you presently.” They thanked her, and chatted happily enough about their work and play. Medora told them that she had been in London, and interested them with what she saw at the Zoological Gardens. “My! To think!” said Mercy. “I thought squirrels was always red.” A few adults passed through the sizing house, among them Mr. Trood. He hesitated, seemed surprised to see her, but said “good morning,” not unpleasantly, and hoped she was all right. “I dare say you half wish you were back again, Medora?” he asked, and she jumped at the suggestion and told him that she often did. “Just peeped in for the pleasure of seeing friends,” she said.