Janet Furlonger sat waiting in the kitchen of Sparrow Hall--now and then springing up to lift the lid off the pot and smell the brown soup, or to put her face to the window-pane and watch the creeping night, seen dimly through the thick green glass and the mists that steamed up from the fields of Wilderwick. Janet was immensely tall, and her movements were grand and free. In rest she had a kind of statuesque dignity: she did not stoop, as if ashamed of her height, but held herself proudly, with lifted chin. People used to say that she walked as if she were showing off beautiful clothes. This was meant to be a joke, for Janet's clothes were terrible--old, and badly made. Hats, collars and waist-bands she evidently thought superfluous; it was also fairly obvious that she dispensed with stays--which caused scandal, not because her figure was bad, but because it was too good. Wind, sun and rain had tinted her face to a delicate wood-nut brown, through which the red glowed timidly, like the flush on a spring catkin. Footsteps sounded on the frosty road, drawing steadily nearer. The next minute the gate clicked. Janet started to her feet, flung open the kitchen door, and ran out into the garden, between rows of chrysanthemums still faintly sweet. Two men were coming up the path, and with outstretched arms she rushed to one of them. "Nigel!--old man!" He did not speak, but folded her to him, bending his face to hers. It was too dark for them to see each other distinctly. All that was clear was the outline of the roof and chimney against the still tremulous west. Janet pulled him softly up the path, into the doorway, where it was darker still. She put up her hands to his face and gently felt the outlines of his features. Then she began to laugh. "What a fool I am! Didn't I say I wasn't going to have any silly sentimentality?--and here I am, simply wallowing in it. Come into the kitchen, young men, and see what I've got for the satisfaction of your gross appetites." They followed her into the kitchen, and she turned round and looked at them both. They were very different. The elder brother, Leonard, was like Janet--dark both of hair and eye, with a healthy red under his tan. The younger's hair was between brown and auburn, and his eyes were large and blue and innocent like a child's. His mouth was not like a child's--indeed, there was a peculiar look of age in its drooping corners, and his teeth flashed suddenly, almost vindictively, when he spoke; it was lucky that they were so white and even, for he showed them with every movement of his lips--two fierce, shining rows. "You're late," said Janet. "No, don't look at the clock, unless you've remembered how to do the old sum. It's really something after nine, and the train is supposed to get in at half-past seven." "Yes--but I got hung up at Grinstead station, playing guardian angel to a kid." "Let's hope the kid didn't ask to see your wings," said Leonard. "Was it a girl-kid or a boy-kid?"