The keeper was not at the hut. Everything was serene, brown chickens running lustily. Connie walked on towards the cottage, because she wanted to find him.

The cottage stood in the sun, off the wood’s edge. In the little garden the double daffodils rose in tufts, near the wide–open door, and red double daisies made a border to the path. There was the bark of a dog, and Flossie came running.

The wide–open door! so he was at home. And the sunlight falling on the red–brick floor! As she went up the path, she saw him through the window, sitting at the table in his shirt–sleeves, eating. The dog wuffed softly, slowly wagging her tail.

He rose, and came to the door, wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief still chewing.

‘May I come in?’ she said.

‘Come in!’

The sun shone into the bare room, which still smelled of a mutton chop, done in a dutch oven before the fire, because the dutch oven still stood on the fender, with the black potato–saucepan on a piece of paper, beside it on the white hearth. The fire was red, rather low, the bar dropped, the kettle singing.

On the table was his plate, with potatoes and the remains of the chop; also bread in a basket, salt, and a blue mug with beer. The table–cloth was white oil–cloth, he stood in the shade.

‘You are very late,’ she said. ‘Do go on eating!’

She sat down on a wooden chair, in the sunlight by the door.

‘I had to go to Uthwaite,’ he said, sitting down at the table but not eating.

‘Do eat,’ she said. But he did not touch the food.

‘Shall y’ave something?’ he asked her. ‘Shall y’ave a cup of tea? t’ kettle’s on t’ boil’—he half rose again from his chair.

‘If you’ll let me make it myself,’ she said, rising. He seemed sad, and she felt she was bothering him.

‘Well, tea–pot’s in there’—he pointed to a little, drab corner cupboard; ‘an’ cups. An’ tea’s on t’ mantel ower yer ‘ead,’

She got the black tea–pot, and the tin of tea from the mantel–shelf. She rinsed the tea–pot with hot water, and stood a moment wondering where to empty it.

‘Throw it out,’ he said, aware of her. ‘It’s clean.’

She went to the door and threw the drop of water down the path. How lovely it was here, so still, so really woodland. The oaks were putting out ochre yellow leaves: in the garden the red daisies were like red plush buttons. She glanced at the big, hollow sandstone slab of the threshold, now crossed by so few feet.

‘But it’s lovely here,’ she said. ‘Such a beautiful stillness, everything alive and still.’

He was eating again, rather slowly and unwillingly, and she could feel he was discouraged. She made the tea in silence, and set the tea–pot on the hob, as she knew the people did. He pushed his plate aside and went to the back place; she heard a latch click, then he came back with cheese on a plate, and butter.