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The kitchen was certainly pitiful in its disorder. The floor had apparently not been swept for a fortnight. On the bare deal table were the remnants of Peter’s dinner, a meal that could not have been very tempting at its best.

“What a miserable place for a human being to live in!” groaned Nancy. “Look at the ashes on that stove! And that table! Is it any wonder that Peter has got gray? He’ll work hard haymaking all the afternoon–and then come home to THIS!”

An idea suddenly darted into Nancy’s brain. At first she looked aghast. Then she laughed and glanced at her watch.

“I’ll do it–just for fun and a little pity. It’s half-past two, and Peter won’t be home till four at the earliest. I’ll have a good hour to do it in, and still make my escape in good time. Nobody will ever know; nobody can see me here.”

Nancy went in, threw off her hat, and seized a broom. The first thing she did was to give the kitchen a thorough sweeping. Then she kindled a fire, put a kettle full of water on to heat, and attacked the dishes. From the number of them she rightly concluded that Peter hadn’t washed any for at least a week.

“I suppose he just uses the clean ones as long as they hold out, and then has a grand wash-up,” she laughed. “I wonder where he keeps his dish-towels, if he has any.”

Evidently Peter hadn’t any. At least, Nancy couldn’t find any. She marched boldly into the dusty sitting-room and explored the drawers of an old-fashioned sideboard, confiscating a towel she found there. As she worked, she hummed a song; her steps were light and her eyes bright with excitement. Nancy was enjoying herself thoroughly, there was no doubt of that. The spice of mischief in the adventure pleased her mightily.

The dishes washed, she hunted up a clean, but yellow and evidently long unused tablecloth out of the sideboard, and proceeded to set the table and get Peter’s tea. She found bread and butter in the pantry, a trip to the cellar furnished a pitcher of cream, and Nancy recklessly heaped the contents of her strawberry jug on Peter’s plate. The tea was made and set back to keep warm. And, as a finishing touch, Nancy ravaged the old neglected garden and set a huge bowl of crimson roses in the centre of the table.

“Now I must go,” she said aloud. “Wouldn’t it be fun to see Peter’s face when he comes in, though? Ha-hum! I’ve enjoyed doing this–but why? Nancy Rogerson, don’t be asking yourself conundrums. Put on your hat and proceed homeward, constructing on your way some reliable fib to account to Louisa for the absence of your strawberries.”

Nancy paused a moment and looked around wistfully. She had made the place look cheery and neat and homelike. She felt that queer tugging at her heart-strings again. Suppose she belonged here, and was waiting for Peter to come home to tea. Suppose–Nancy whirled around with a sudden horrible prescience of what she was going to see! Peter Wright was standing in the doorway.

Nancy’s face went crimson. For the first time in her life she had not a word to say for herself. Peter looked at her and then at the table, with its fruit and flowers.

“Thank you,” he said politely.

Nancy recovered herself. With a shame-faced laugh, she held out her hand.

“Don’t have me arrested for trespass, Peter. I came and looked in at your kitchen out of impertinent curiosity, and just for fun I thought I’d come in and get your tea. I thought you’d be so surprised–and I meant to go before you came home, of course.”

“I wouldn’t have been surprised,” said Peter, shaking hands. “I saw you go past the field and I tied the horses and followed you down through the woods. I’ve been sitting on the fence back yonder, watching your comings and goings.” “Why didn’t you come and speak to me at church yesterday, Peter?” demanded Nancy boldly.