Jane and Harold and Edward shouted with delight at the prospect, and next morning Philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by their bursting into his room.  The boys jumped on his bed, and he had to chase them out with his slippers.  He put on a coat and a pair of trousers and went down.  The day had only just broken, and there was a nip in the air; but the sky was cloudless, and the sun was shining yellow.  Sally, holding Connie’s hand, was standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a bathing-dress over her arm.  He saw now that her sun-bonnet was of the colour of lavender, and against it her face, red and brown, was like an apple.  She greeted him with her slow, sweet smile, and he noticed suddenly that her teeth were small and regular and very white.  He wondered why they had never caught his attention before.

“I was for letting you sleep on,” she said, “but they would go up and wake you.  I said you didn’t really want to come.”

“Oh, yes, I did.”

They walked down the road and then cut across the marshes.  That way it was under a mile to the sea.  The water looked cold and gray, and Philip shivered at the sight of it; but the others tore off their clothes and ran in shouting.  Sally did everything a little slowly, and she did not come into the water till all the rest were splashing round Philip.  Swimming was his only accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he had them all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a drowning man, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair.  The bathe was uproarious, and it was necessary for Sally to be very severe to induce them all to come out.

“You’re as bad as any of them,” she said to Philip, in her grave, maternal way, which was at once comic and touching.  “They’re not anything like so naughty when you’re not here.”

They walked back, Sally with her bright hair streaming over one shoulder and her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to the huts Mrs. Athelny had already started for the hop-garden.  Athleny, in a pair of the oldest trousers anyone had ever worn, his jacket buttoned up to show he had no shirt on, and in a wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fire of sticks.  He was delighted with himself:  he looked every inch a brigand.  As soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches’ chorus from Macbeth over the odorous kippers.

“You mustn’t dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be angry,” he said, when they came up.

And in a few minutes, Harold and Jane with pieces of bread and butter in their hands, they sauntered through the meadow into the hop-field.  They were the last to leave.  A hop-garden was one of the sights connected with Philip’s boyhood and the oast-houses to him the most typical feature of the Kentish scene.  It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he were at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines of the hops.  The