its pattern long ago; the cupboard that occupies one corner, the dresser, hung with mugs and cups, that runs along one wall, the lounges underneath the two great windows, are all obviously home-made. But, frugal though its furnishing, there is a most comfortable homeyness about the place. A green jug upon the table, too, holds a handful of Canterbury bells, purple and white; plump cushions, with bright covers mollify the lounges; there is plenty of light; above all, there is plenty of air, for both windows are open, and another door, opposite to that by which we entered, frames another glimpse of garden-green. Through this second door Nance disappears, while Mother smooths out an imaginary crease in the cloth laid at one end of the long table, and straightens the quite straight cups and plates.
“We’ve a cooking-shed outside,” she explains, as Nance returns with a tray and a steaming tea-pot. “Where’s Eva, Nance?”
“Eva? Oh, still at the butter, I expect,” says Nance. “There’s a splendid lot this week.”
It is hours since we breakfasted, and the delicious bread and butter and jam, all home-made, of course, are more than welcome, not to speak of the hot tea, and sweet rich cream.
“How about Dad, though?” says loyal Mother, as she takes her seat.
“Oh, Dad’s all right,” Nance answers, putting brisk finishing touches to a great “kit,” covered in with a spotless tea-towel; “I told Benny to be down for the lunch just about now”—and even as she says the words, in shoots a breathless, towheaded twelve-year-old. He smiles to his mother, nods to
