‘Want some soup, pet?’ Marion asked. Alice moved her head and opened her mouth more while Marion spooned some in. ‘More?’ But Alice turned her head away with a faint wail and lay back.

A pang of fear struck Marion. There was no doubt that now she had Marion’s cold, and Marion knew from her own heart-rending experience how quickly a child, even a strong child, could wilt, fade and die in a few days. She got up and, leaning over the partition to the goat shed, pulled a bit of hay out and put it in the cradle on top of the damp straw and made a little mound under the cradle’s hood. Peter had picked Alice up and was attempting to feed her from his own bowl. Alice took a few spoonfuls and then coughed and turned her face away.

‘Poor little button,’ he said, suddenly tender. ‘She’s all in a mess with that cold. Pop her in the cradle and cover her up, she won’t take any more soup – then you can give me some more.’

As she refilled her own bowl for Peterkin, her hand encountered his skinny knee, damp and very cold. He shivered. ‘Eat that quickly,’ she said, ‘then pull off your tunic and roll yourself in your blanket tight and get on the bed. Don’t want you to have a cold too.’ How white and ghostly his thin body appeared in the faint light as he stripped off his tunic. Had he the strength, she wondered, to carry the bundle all the way up to Rockwell? But she said nothing.

She pulled the half-empty pot on to the hearthstone and knocked the glowing logs together for safety. She had had enough of the day. She dragged herself to the door and stepped out. The sky westwards over the trees still had a faint light about it, between the horizontal slabs of brownish clouds. The air was cold and the wet ground at once chilled her feet again. She relieved herself, not stepping out as far as the midden, and returned as quickly as she could. The little flame had gone out, the cottage was dark except for the reddish glow from the fire. She sat down again, scooping up a little extra straw to soften her seat, leant back against the log and tried to rewarm her feet on the hearthstone.

Oh she was weary. Every breath scraped laboriously over her aching throat; a burning nostril now dripped a hot liquid on to her cracked lips; her eyes, open or shut, ached in her heavy head and a strange pressure thumped in her ears. Every sense seemed to have its centre in her painfully congested head. The tiredness seemed to lie in lumps down her legs. I can do no more, she thought. I hope they’ve finished quarrelling, but even if it starts up again, I can do no more.

Some time later, perhaps hours, perhaps only minutes, she was aware of Peter’s hand on her shoulder. ‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’ he whispered.