It was in the midst of a rollicking chorus that Herr Schmidt returned unexpectedly. He stood in the doorway, unseen, unheard, while the chorus rang out:— "’Mush, mush, mush, tooral i-add Mush, mush, mush, tooral i-ay! There was ne’er a gossoon in the village, Dare thread on the tail of me coat!’" "By Jove, the owner!" ejaculated Ted, as Denis started on the next verse. Denis nodded with gay insouciance at Herr Schmidt, and sang on. Nell went forward, laughing:— "Oh, Herr Schmidt, we knew you wouldn’t mind our using your room—_do_ you?" "Nein, nein! It is a great unexpectful bleasure, Fräulein! It is so goot of you, meine liebe! I am so bleased, so very much bleased!" He was patting her hand and beaming round his crowded room. "Ach, zere is my little Miss Sheila! But zere is no fire!" His face fell ludicrously. "How inhospital! Why did not ze maid light ze fire? Fräulein, we must light ze fire at once!" They persuaded him to sing, and his great rolling bass amused Molly so much that she had to retire to the stairs to hide her mirth. Then he joined their supper party, and his broad, red, beaming face, with its kind little eyes twinkling over his glasses, was certainly indicative of enjoyment. *CHAPTER XXII* "On, Denis!" said Nell, looking up from a letter from Miss Kezia. They were at breakfast. In the middle of the table there was a great jar of jonquils. In a tiny glass bowl were some precious snowdrops from home. The room wore a rakish air somehow. Perhaps it was the different arrangement of the furniture, which, instead of standing stiffly in set places, was clotted about haphazard just wherever it happened to find itself. On one chair lay a smock of the Atom’s, with a needle and cotton stuck into it where Nell had begun to mend a rent. On another lay Molly’s gloves. Books and papers were scattered about—James O’Driscoll wandered about and picked out all the furniture buttons that he could find. The sun peeped in and laughed and danced to think what Miss Kezia would say. "Oh, Denis!" said Nell. He looked up from a letter. "What’s up?" Nell bit her lip. "What’s _up_?" With eyes cast down, she began rather tremulously:— "It’s—it’s Miss Hadlow. She has it worse than Aunt Kezia thought. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to be home for some days yet." "How many days, Nell?" queried the Atom, anxiously. "She doesn’t know, but she says Miss Hadlow won’t take proper nourishment unless she’s there to make her; and it is essential that while the influenza runs its course, she should take sufficient nourishment to keep up her strength. Denis, you’re _not_ to laugh!" "How long does it take running its course?" asked Molly. "I don’t know. A week—" "Oh, more than that," said Denis, cheerfully. "Poor Miss Hadlow!" said Molly, dutifully. They all began to laugh and laugh. "Aren’t we h-h-horrid?" gasped Nell.