"Awdrey!" cried Tony, springing up. "Here's Quentin!"
CHAPTER II THE LETTER THAT DID NOT COME
The door was wide open at Sparrow Hall, and a square of sunshine lay on the kitchen floor. In the little flower-stuffed garden bees were humming lazily, and a thrush was singing in the last of the laburnum. Tangles of roses trailed over the farm-house walls, they hung round the window-frames, darkening the rooms, and over the door, sending faint perfumes to Janey as she sat in the kitchen.
She looked pale and washed-out with the heat. The outlines of her splendid figure were drooping, and there was an ominous hollowing of the curves of her face and arms. She sat at the table, her cheek resting on her palm, reading from a pile of letters. They were long letters, closely written in a sharp, scrawling hand, on thin paper that crackled gently as she fingered it. Every now and then she looked up anxiously, and seemed to listen. Then her head would bow again, and the paper would crackle softly as before.
At last the garden gate clicked, and she saw the postman's cap coming up the path between the rows of sweet peas. She sprang to her feet, trembling and fighting for her self-command. She reached the door just as he lifted his hand to knock.
"A letter for you, miss," and old Winkworth smiled genially.
The colour rushed over Janey's cheeks like a wave, then as a wave ebbed out again. She took the letter with a hand that shook piteously, her lips parted and a low laugh broke from them. Then suddenly her expression changed—in such a manner that Winkworth muttered anxiously—
"Fine afternoon, ain't it, miss?"