Johnny Gillat was there before her; he had been busy in the garden all the afternoon, but, with the help of the field-glasses which he had not been allowed to sell, he had descried her coming across the open land.  As soon as he was sure of her, and while she was still a good way off, he hurried away his tools into the house to get ready.  He wanted it all to look to her as it had to him on the day when he came back from cone-getting—­the fire blazing, the tea ready, the kitchen snug and neat; very unlike the dining-room at Marbridge with the one gas jet burning and “Bouquet” alight.  Of course Johnny did not quite succeed; he never did in matters small or great, but he did his best.  The dinner things, which Captain Polkington was to have washed, were not done, and still about.  They had to be put in the back kitchen, and Johnny, who had no idea of saving labour, took so long carrying them away, that he hardly had time to set the tea.  He had meant to make some toast, but there was no time for that; the first piece of bread had no more than begun to get warm when he heard Julia’s step outside.  But the fire was blazing nicely, and that was the chief thing; even though the putting on of the kettle had been forgotten.  When Julia came in and saw the fire and crooked tablecloth and hastily-arranged cups, and Johnny’s beaming face, she exclaimed, “How cubby it looks!  Why, you have got the tea all ready, and”—­sniffing the air—­“I believe you are making toast; that is nice!”

Mr. Gillat beamed; then he caught sight of the kettle standing on the hearth, and his face fell.

But Julia put it on the fire.  “It will give you good time to finish the toast while it boils,” she said; “toast ought not to be hurried, you know; yours will be just right.”

It was not; it was rather smoky when it came to be eaten, the fire not being very suitable; but that did not matter; Julia declared it perfect.  This was the only form of hypocrisy she practised in the simple life; possibly, if she thought of the will more than the deed, it was really not such great hypocrisy.  At all events she practised it; she did not think truth so beautiful that frail daily life must be the better for its undiluted and uncompromising application to all poor little tender efforts.

During tea the great subject of conversation was the hen house.  The last occupant of the cottage had kept hens and all the out-buildings were in good repair; however, a recent gale had loosened part of the roof of this one, and Captain Polkington had been mending it.  There had not been much to do; the Captain could not do a great deal; his faculties of work—­if he ever had any—­had atrophied for want of use.  Still, he thought he had done a good day’s work, and, as a consequence, was important and inclined to be exacting.  That is the reason why he had neglected the dinner things; he felt that a man who had done all he had was entitled to some rest and consideration.