"Come into th' kitchen, lass," said James, after he had smiled into a
corner of the room, "and take off them gloves and things."

"But, great-stepuncle, I can't stay."

"You'll stop for tea," said he, firmly, "or my name isn't James
Ollerenshaw."

He preceded her into the kitchen. The door between the kitchen and the
scullery was half-closed; in the aperture he again had a momentary, but
distinct, glimpse of the eye of Mrs. Butt.

"I do like this room," said Helen, enthusiastically.

"Uninterrupted view o' th' back yard," said Ollerenshaw. "Sit ye down,
lass."

He indicated an article of furniture which stood in front of the range,
at a distance of perhaps six feet from it, cutting the room in half.
This contrivance may be called a sofa, or it may be called a couch; but
it can only be properly described by the Midland word for it--squab. No
other term is sufficiently expressive. Its seat--five feet by two--was
very broad and very low, and it had a steep, high back and sides. All
its angles were right angles. It was everywhere comfortably padded; it
yielded everywhere to firm pressure; and it was covered with a grey and
green striped stuff. You could not sit on that squab and be in a
draught; yet behind it, lest the impossible should arrive, was a heavy
curtain, hung on an iron rod which crossed the room from wall to wall.
Not much imagination was needed to realise the joy and ecstasy of
losing yourself on that squab on a winter afternoon, with the range fire