Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the public-house at which he had got a room for Philip.  It was a quarter of a mile from the hop-field.  They left his bag there and walked over to the meadow in which were the huts.  They were nothing more than a long, low shed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square.  In front of each was a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching the cooking of supper.  The sea-air and the sun had browned already the faces of Athelny’s children.  Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in her sun-bonnet:  you felt that the long years in the city had made no real difference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could see how much at home she found herself in the country.  She was frying bacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she had a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip.  Athelny was enthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence.

“We’re starved for sun and light in the cities we live in.  It isn’t life, it’s a long imprisonment.  Let us sell all we have, Betty, and take a farm in the country.”

“I can see you in the country,” she answered with good-humoured scorn.  “Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you’d be crying for London.”  She turned to Philip.  “Athelny’s always like this when we come down here.  Country, I like that!  Why, he don’t know a swede from a mangel-wurzel.”

“Daddy was lazy today,” remarked Jane, with the frankness which characterized her, “he didn’t fill one bin.”

“I’m getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill more bins than all of you put together.”

“Come and eat your supper, children,” said Mrs. Athelny.  “Where’s Sally?”

“Here I am, mother.”

She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fire leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face.  Of late Philip had only seen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at the dressmaker’s, and there was something very charming in the print dress she wore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed her strong, round arms.  She too had a sun-bonnet.

“You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story,” said Philip, as he shook hands with her.

“She’s the belle of the hop-fields,” said Athelny.  “My word, if the Squire’s son sees you he’ll make you an offer of marriage before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“The Squire hasn’t got a son, father,” said Sally.

She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made room for her beside him.  She looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires.  She was like some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom old Herrick had praised in exquisite numbers.  The supper was simple, bread and butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs. Athelny and Philip.  Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate.  He flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives upon Brillat-Savarin.