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rowed 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-hu-
moured 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 frank-
ness 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.

Of Human Bondage