The tea was made and set back to keep warm. And, as a finishing touch,
Nancy ravaged the old neglected garden and set a huge bowl of crimson
roses in the centre of the table.
"Now I must go," she said aloud. "Wouldn't it be fun to see Peter's
face when he comes in, though? Ha-hum! I've enjoyed doing this--
but why? Nancy Rogerson, don't be asking yourself conundrums.
Put on your hat and proceed homeward, constructing on your way some
reliable fib to account to Louisa for the absence of your strawberries."
Nancy paused a moment and looked around wistfully.
She had made the place look cheery and neat and homelike.
She felt that queer tugging at her heart-strings again.
Suppose she belonged here, and was waiting for Peter
to come home to tea. Suppose--Nancy whirled around with a
sudden horrible prescience of what she was going to see!
Peter Wright was standing in the doorway.
Nancy's face went crimson. For the first time in her life she had not
a word to say for herself. Peter looked at her and then at the table,
with its fruit and flowers.
"Thank you," he said politely.
Nancy recovered herself. With a shame-faced laugh, she held
out her hand.
"Don't have me arrested for trespass, Peter.
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