‘Alice too,’ said Alice, flumping down and stretching out her short dirty legs. Marion took her on her knee and Lisa carefully snipped her tiny nails, toes and fingers, all as soft as the flakes in an apple core.

Alice’s hood had, as usual, fallen back and revealed her pale wispy hair, the ends falling over her face and much of it with dried porridge or milk sticking it together into a smelly mess.

‘Cut her hair too, Lisa,’ Marion said. ‘It’s falling into her eyes all the time. Cut it short over her forehead. It can’t be good for her sight that she’s always looking through it,’ and with Marion holding her head Lisa snipped a few inches off all round Alice’s baby-piglike face.

‘Alice’s hair,’ she murmured, impressed, watching Marion collect the wisps and throw them on the fire, ‘all burnt.’

‘I must get home, Aunt,’ said Lisa, rising and putting the little shears back in the pouch. ‘I’ll be going down to the Mill in a few days if the thaw keeps up, and I can tell Mother you are all right here.’

‘When Peter’s finished doing that shelf with Martin,’ said Marion, ‘cut his toenails if you can persuade him. I don’t know when we’ll have another chance of doing it, and he scratched Peterkin’s arm badly in bed last night.’ Lisa departed, leaving the upper half of the door open, and some pale sunlight crept in.

The little change of company and conversation had cheered Marion up and her cheerfulness reflected on her children. She swept the ground round the hearthstones – always a safety measure, and at once the cottage appeared neater and well cared for. She put another small log on the fire, and by the light of its flames and the faint sunlight outside, she took up her spindle and the basket of carded wool. Her fingers were mostly swollen and all stiff, and this made twirling the spindle jerky and the yarn she made was rather uneven, and her hands hurt. But to spin was an excuse for sitting down on the log, with her rebandaged feet near, but not on the hearthstones. Peterkin had taken the hen-tail broom and had reswept a patch of the floor clear of bits and on its dusty surface was drawing with a bit of stick, Alice watching him closely.

‘Whassat?’ she asked.

‘It’s our cottage,’ said Peterkin, concentrating, ‘and that’s the ash tree hanging over it.’

‘Where’s door?’

‘Haven’t done it yet.’

‘Do smoke in roof,’ said Alice. Marion, listening, realized that Alice had acquired many more words recently, though she had not consciously taught her. Peterkin scribbled in some smoke.

‘More,’ said Alice, ‘more smoke all over.’

‘Can’t, it’s mixed up with the ash tree.’

Alice picked up a stick and with almost equal skill drew an oblong house with voluminous smoke pouring from it.

‘I like doing smoke,’ she said, continuing. Peterkin, slightly jealous of her ability, said, ‘Do the ash tree with ivy on it.’ Alice scratched in the ash tree, bending over the roof because the drawing area was restricted by the hearthstone. Then she scratched a rough circle above the house with radiating lines.