These were his thoughts while Lucius, provokingly practical, was giving orders for chops and rashers and poached eggs to Mrs. Wincher, who had made a complete transformation in her personal appearance to do honour to her new situation, and now wore a white cap and a clean linen apron, in place of the crumpled black bonnet and sage-green half-shawl which had been her distinguishing marks in Cedar House. Jacob Wincher came in, while his good lady was cooking chops and rashers, and laid the cloth neatly, placing the tea-tray on one side of the table. He handled things as deftly as if he had been all his life languishing to be a butler, and only now found his right position in the world. To serve Lucius was a labour of love with both these people. He had wronged them, and generously atoned for the wrong he had done, and it seemed as if the wrong and the atonement had endeared him to them. Jacob drew the curtains, lighted the candles, and made all snug just as Mrs. Wincher bumped against the door with the dishes. The chops were perfection, the eggs and bacon fit for a picture of still life, the crusty loaf a model for all bakers to imitate who would achieve renown in neighbourhoods where bread is verily the staff of life. Janet made the tea, and at sight of her seated by the tea-tray Geoffrey’s spirits in some measure revived. He relegated that question of lifelong adieu to the regions of abstract thought. His countenance brightened. He gave Janet Flossie’s message about the fifty kisses; at which the mother smiled and asked many eager questions about her darling. ‘I am going back to my pet to-morrow,’ she said. ‘It is the first time we were ever parted, and it has been a hard trial for me.’ ‘Should I be impertinent if I asked why you came so suddenly to London?’ Geoffrey inquired. A pained look came into Janet’s face. ‘I came upon a sorrowful errand,’ she answered; ‘Lucius can tell you about it by and by.’ ‘You are in mourning for some one who has died lately,’ hazarded Geoffrey, with a glance at that black dress about which he had been puzzling himself considerably. ‘I am in mourning for my husband, who died only a week ago,’ Janet answered quietly. The blow was almost too sudden. Great joys are overwhelming as great sorrows. Geoffrey, the strong, manly, joyous-hearted Geoffrey, grew pale to the lips. He got up from his chair, and gave a struggling gasp, as if striving for breath. ‘Janet, is it true?’ he asked, lest he should be the victim of some cruel deception. ‘It is quite true, Mr. Hossack,’ she answered; the coldness of her tone rebuking the ardour of his. ‘My husband is dead. His death was as unhappy as his life was guilty. It pains me to remember either.’