IV

Mr. Vincent and his daughter drew very near together as the time came

when each from a different stand-point unconsciously hankered after

companionship. She read books with him, and did tasks that she found

delightful, since they kept her a prisoner in the window-seat of the

best parlor, whence, looking up, she could see him bending over his

papers. He even arranged to take her to Guildford twice a week, so that

she might have a music-lesson from the doctor's widow, who earned a

modest living by teaching. And on her seventeenth birthday he gave her a

piano. Its arrival was quite an event at Woodside Farm.

"It will be a rare thing to hear Margaret play," Mrs. Vincent said, as

she watched it being put into place.

But Hannah was half contemptuous. "It would have been better to have

bought a good harmonium," she snorted; "it might have been useful some

day--" She broke off abruptly, for none knew of her secret store towards

the chapel; and there was no occasion to speak of it, since it had not

yet reached the modest sum of twenty pounds. Money had perplexed Hannah

a good deal of late; there was the desire to put it away for the pious

dream of her soul, and the womanly impulse to spend it on finery--hard,

prim finery. For at Petersfield there dwelt a thriving young house

agent, in a good way of business, smart-looking and fair mustached, and

possessed of a far-seeing mother, who had suggested that Hannah would

have the farm and a bit of money some day, and make a thrifty wife into

the bargain. This accounted for what might be called an investigation

visit that Mr. Garratt paid her grandparents one Sunday afternoon when

Hannah was at Petersfield, and his asking her to take him across the

field to see a tree that had been struck by lightning the previous

fortnight. Afterwards he had been pressed to stay for tea, and his tone

was significant when he remarked on leaving that he had enjoyed himself

very much, and hoped to get over to Chidhurst one Sunday for the morning

service, and to see the grave of his aunt Amelia, who was buried there.

Hannah being too grim--it was counted for shyness--to say anything

pleasant for herself, old Mrs. Barton had told him, in a good

business-like tone, that when he went he had better look out for Hannah

and her mother, and walk back with them for dinner at the farm. This was

two months ago, but still Hannah waited patiently, thinking that if he

appeared it might be as well to hear what he had to say, since by this

time she was well on in her twenties--at the fag end of them, in

fact--and marriage was one of the possibilities to be considered in

life. Thus every week brought its excitement to her, and as yet its

disappointment.

Sunday brought its excitement for Margaret, too; but it was a happy one.

For when the country folk were sheltered in the church or busy with

those things that kept them out of sight she and her father had their

best time together. Then it was that they loitered about the deserted

fields and out-buildings, or went up to the great beech woods standing

high behind the farm, and watched the still landscape round them, just

as in the first years of his coming Gerald Vincent had watched it alone

from the porch. They called the beech wood their cathedral--the great

elms and beeches and closely knit oak-trees made its roof and the

columns of its aisles--and it seemed as if in their hearts they

celebrated a silent service there to a mysterious God who had made joy

and sorrow and all the beauty of the earth and given it to humanity for

good or ill. In a sense, Margaret had no other religion. Her father said

that when she was old enough to understand and think for herself she

could make her own beliefs or unbeliefs, meanwhile she need only

remember to tell the truth, to do nothing that would cause another pain,

and to help those nearest to her, never considering their deserts, but

only their needs.

Gradually Mr. Vincent grew uneasy concerning life at the farm. For

himself he was content enough, a little longer he could be content for

Margaret; but afterwards? Besides, a reaction comes to all things, and

now and then when he saw the far-off look in her eyes and heard the

eager note in her voice--a sweet, eager note like that of a bird at

dawn--he felt the ghost of old desires stirring within him, and an

uneasy longing to see the world again, so that he might know what manner

of place Margaret would some day find it. It came upon him with dismay

that she was growing up, that this tall girl of over seventeen would

soon be a woman, and that she was going to be beautiful. Pale generally,

and almost haughty looking, dreams in her eyes, and gold in the brown of

her hair, and a mouth that had her mother's sweet, curved lips. A girl's

face and simple, but eager and even thoughtful, the impulses of youth

characterized her still, but womanhood was on its way, and now and then,

in spite of her happy laugh, her blue eyes looked as if unconsciously

they knew that tragedy dwelt somewhere in the world, and feared lest

they should meet it. But as yet Hannah's scoldings were the only trouble

that had beset her. These were not to be taken lightly, for as she grew

older Hannah's tone became harsher, her manner more dominant, and the

shrinking from Margaret and her father, that she had always felt, did

not grow less. Margaret bore it all fairly well, sometimes resisting or

passionately protesting that she would run away from the farm and the

scold who had taken its whole direction into her hands, and at others

hiding herself in one of the lofts till the storm had passed. When it

was over she crept out to her mother--always to her mother at those

times--to be soothed and caressed. Even Mr. Vincent felt that Hannah was

a hard nut to crack; but he contented himself with the thought that some

day Margaret would break away from her present surroundings--a beautiful

girl, who had read a good deal and was cultivating the habit of

thinking, was not likely to make Woodside Farm her whole share of the

world.

The beginning of the end came one October morning in a letter from his

brother in Australia. It had been sent under cover to his lawyers; for,

though in a general way, the brothers knew each other's whereabouts, in

detail they knew nothing. Cyril Vincent (he was now, of course, Lord

Eastleigh) was ill of an incurable disease, and though he had no

intention of returning, his thoughts were reaching out to England. His

early career had been a disgrace, his marriage had proved a ghastly

failure, and the least he could do was to cover it up, together with his

own life, on the other side of the world. Gradually he had developed a

strong sense of social and moral obligation that had made him hate

himself when he remembered the advantages to which he had been born. Of

what use had he been with his dissipated habits, he thought bitterly, or

could he be now that he saw the folly of them, with his health

permanently ruined, his wife vulgar and often drunken? If birth or

accident had given such people the right to be counted as aristocracy,

then, by every law of Heaven, and for the sake of those things that make

for the salvation of the race, they ought to be stamped out.

The letter came at breakfast-time. Mr. Vincent was still thinking it

over when Hannah pushed back her chair with a grating noise along the

tiled floor, and said in a rasping voice:

"I shall be driving to Liphook this afternoon if anything is wanted."

He hesitated on his way to the best parlor. "You might call at the

post-office and ask when the Australian mail goes," he said.

Mrs. Vincent and Margaret looked after him; then, as was their custom,

they gathered up the breakfast things and carried them to the kitchen.

Hannah was there already, searching round the shelves and cupboards as

if she expected to come upon a hidden crime.

"I've no time to iron those muslins to-day," she said; "you had better

do them, Margaret. I never see why you shouldn't help with things.

Mother and I have enough to do."

"But of course I will; and I like ironing, especially in cold weather."

"There isn't a curtain fit to put to a window, and my hands are full

enough," Hannah went on, as if she had not heard. "Towsey will put down

the irons. Till they are hot, perhaps you had better run out a bit," she

added, impatiently; "you always make so much of the air. For my part, I

find it better to look after one's work than after one's health; one

brings the other is what I think."

Mrs. Vincent had gone slowly towards the best parlor. She opened the

door and looked in. "Shall I come to you for a minute, father?" she

asked him. Since Margaret's birth she had generally called him "father";

his Christian name had never come very easily to her.

"If you like," he answered, without looking up from his papers.

"I thought you were worried a bit with your letter." She stood behind

him and touched his shoulder. Time had accentuated the difference in

years between them, and the caress had something maternal in it.

"I meant to talk to you about it presently," he said, and turned

reluctantly towards her. "It is from my brother in Australia."

"Is he in any trouble?"

"Yes, he's in trouble, I suppose."

They were silent for a moment, then she spoke, and he loved her for the

firmness in her voice. "If it's money, we can help him. There's a good

bit saved from the farm these last years. I had no idea milk was going

to pay so well."

"It isn't money. He is ill, and not likely to be better." He stopped,

and then went on quickly: "He made a foolish marriage before he left

England; but I don't know that there is any use in our discussing that."

It seemed as if he were closing an open book.

"Has he no children to look after him?"

"No."

She was silent for a moment, as if she were trying to face something

that had to be done, and nerving herself to speak. "It isn't for me to

know what's best. I never knew any of your people, or saw any one

belonging to you--"

"That's true," he answered, awkwardly.

"--Every one has a right to his own history, and I don't hold with

giving it out just for the sake of talking. Many lives have been upset

by things there was no need to tell--" She stopped again, and then went

on bravely. "But what I am coming to is that if your brother is ill and

has nobody but his wife, who isn't any good, you might like to go out to

him?"

"To go out to him!" The thought made his heart leap. The quiet years

had ranged themselves round him lately like the walls of a prison--a

friendly prison, in which he was well content--but it seemed as if he

had suddenly come in sight of a door-way through which he might go

outwards for a little while and come back when he had seen once more the

unforgotten tracks.

"It might comfort him," she went on without flinching. "And you wouldn't

be more than a year gone, I expect. It must be terribly dull for you

here sometimes. I've often thought how good you've been."

He put his hand tenderly on her arm while he answered, "All the goodness

has been yours."

She turned her eyes to the window lest he should see the happiness in

them, for she had always been half ashamed of loving him as she did--a

staid woman of middle age, with homely matters to concern her. "I don't

see that I have done anything out of the way," she said.

"Did it never occur to you that you have not seen any one belonging to

me, and that really you know nothing about me? I was a stranger when I

came, and you took me in."

"One knows a good deal without being told. I've always felt that your

family was what it should be; and there's been all your life here to

judge you by."

He looked at her and felt like an impostor. He knew that the fact of

his father having been a lord, or his brother being one now, would not

uplift her as it would a vulgar woman. On the contrary, it would

probably be an embarrassment to her, and a reason for being silent

regarding them, since she would think it unlikely that people who were

her superiors in education and knowledge of the world would desire any

kinship with her. On her own side, too, there was a certain pride of

race, of the simple life that she and generations of her people before

her had lived--that and no other. Strangers might come into it, might be

welcomed, served, and cared for, even loved; but she herself did not

want to go beyond its boundaries, and though she treated all people with

deference, it was deference given to their strangerhood and bearing, and

to the quality of their manners, rather than to their social standing.

Her husband knew it and respected her for it, and felt ashamed to

remember that his father had been a spendthrift and a company promoter,

and that his brother had made a hideous marriage. People who did these

things were plentiful enough in London, but they were unknown at

Chidhurst. All that she definitely knew about him was that he had been

at Oxford--at college, as she always put it--and afterwards that he had

been in the Church and left it on account of scruples; but concerning

the scruples, and what they meant precisely, she was always vague. If

she had been asked to describe her husband's character she would

probably have said, as if it were a paradox, that he was a good man,

though he didn't go to church on Sundays.

They had stood silently together for a minute, busy with their own

thoughts, then he spoke. "I fear Hannah doesn't think much of my life,"

he said.

"She means well, but she's been brought up strict. James's people were

always strict, and he was, too, though he reproached himself at the end

for not being strict enough. That's why I feel I ought to give in to her

a bit, and let her do what she thinks is right, when it doesn't clash

with you. I wouldn't be surprised if she married some day; Mr. Garratt's

written saying he'll be at Chidhurst soon, and he'd like to pay his

respects to me, having known James's people so many years."

Mr. Vincent was amused. "Oh, well, if Hannah's going to have a young man

about the place, I'd better get out of the way," he said. "I'll write to

Cyril by the next post and tell him of your suggestion."

V

Other letters followed that first one from Australia. Lord Eastleigh had

caught at the suggestion of Gerald's visit. But he carefully faced the

probable course of his illness. The chances were that he might go on for

some time longer, and he thought it would be best for his brother to

come out when the end was getting near. Gradually they had learned all

there was to know of each other, and in middle life and far apart there

had grown up between them an affection of which their youth had shown

but little promise. Cyril Vincent had done some work in Australia--it

was the only thing for which he respected himself. Lately he had even

saved some thousands, and, after providing for his wife, he meant to

leave them to Gerald. For scrupulous Churchman as Cyril had remained,

even through all his excesses and mistakes, he recognized the courage

with which his brother had stood by what he believed to be the truth;

and now, when disease had seized him on the lonely Australian station,

the only happiness left him was the thought that he might see again the

one being who had not disgraced the family.

The months went by without alarms till Margaret was eighteen. It was

mid-spring at Woodside Farm; the early flowers were up in the Dutch

garden, the first green was on the trees, the sowers were busy in the

fields, and all the earth smelled sweet. In the house spring cleaning

was rife; it told, together with the non-coming of Mr. Garratt, on

Hannah's temper, and Hannah's temper told on the rest of the family.

"I don't think he has behaved well," Mrs. Vincent said to her husband.

"A man has no right to send a letter saying he hopes to get over soon

and pay his respects to her mother, and then not be as good as his word.

It isn't even as if he hadn't sent her a card at Christmas, showing he

still thought of her. You see, Hannah's getting on, and she isn't

satisfied at holding herself over for a chance." What else Hannah could

possibly do she didn't explain.

Mr. Vincent shrewdly suspected that Mr. Garratt's courage had failed

him, or perhaps that he regarded matrimony as a sober investment to be

made in middle age rather than as an exhilaration for youth, and so was

just keeping an eye open without committing himself. But whatever the

reason, Mr. Garratt had not yet appeared, and the effects were obvious.

Hannah brushed her hair back more tightly than formerly, her movements

became jerky, a little pink settled itself at the tip of her nose, and

her tongue took a freer range.

The hours were earlier at Woodside Farm as the spring advanced. By nine

o'clock Mr. Vincent had gone to his study, and Hannah was busy in the

dairy or out among the chickens. Then it was that Mrs. Vincent and

Margaret allowed themselves the luxury of a little foolish talk together

in the living-place. It was only possible when Hannah was not about, for

she had no patience with a great girl, who might be making better use of

her time, sitting on the arm of a chair. So Mrs. Vincent and Margaret

stole their little interviews together with the happy craftiness of

lovers.

The postman came into the porch one morning while they were talking.

Mrs. Vincent always listened for him now, knowing well that one day he

would bring the message she dreaded. There were two letters for her

husband, and her heart stood still when she saw that one was from

Australia. But she recovered in a moment; after all, there had been many

letters now, and this might be only one added to the number. The strange

thing was that she never asked a question. When he had to go he would

tell her, she thought; what was the use of worrying him? The other

letter was an English one--a woman's handwriting in violet ink on

pale-gray paper. She looked at it curiously, and felt that this, too,

was connected with his history--that part of his history of which she

knew nothing.

"You can take them to him, Margaret," she said, and sat down again.

"Father started when he saw the one directed with violet ink," Margaret

told her when she returned.

Mrs. Vincent looked at her daughter wonderingly, and tried to divert her

own thoughts. "I can't believe you are growing up," she said; "we

sha'n't be able to keep you much longer."

Margaret lifted the hair from her mother's forehead and kissed beneath

it--soft hair, with a crinkle in it that had of late grown gray. "What

is going to happen to me?" she asked, and thought of the blue distance

on the Surrey hills. It was beginning to attract her.

"I'd give the world to know. I can't bear the idea of your going away

from the farm."

"But if I go I shall return; a bird always comes back to its nest, and I

shall come back to your arms. Shall I tell you a secret?" she whispered.

Her mother nodded with a little smile on her lips, and tried to be

interested; but all the time she knew that behind the shut door of the

best parlor something was going on that might change the whole current

of their lives. "Father doesn't want to sit so much in-doors as he has

done," Margaret continued; "so he means to buy a tent, a little square

one, open in front, with room for a writing-table and two easy-chairs,

and a little sofa made of basket-work, you know. It's to be put up at

the edge of the field, and when it's fine he will sit there and work,

and sometimes we are going to invite you to tea--"

"My word! what will Hannah say?"

"Oh, she'll make a fuss, but it won't matter, for father's father. We

shall have a glorious summer," she added, with a sigh of content, "and I

am so glad it's coming. I don't believe Hannah's heaven will be half so

good as this world is in summer-time, when everything is green and a

dear mother loves you."

"It will be your heaven, too, Margey, dear," Mrs. Vincent said. "I don't

like you to talk so--"

"Then I won't," Margaret answered, impulsively. "I won't do anything you

don't like. Here is father."

"He has come to tell us something," Mrs. Vincent said. She started from

her chair and looked at him, and then for a moment at the green world

beyond the porch, as if she felt that it would give her strength. But

his news was not what she had expected.

"I'm going to London on Monday morning," he said, "and should like to

take Margaret with me. Can she go?"

"How long is it to be for?" Mrs. Vincent asked, while Margaret stood

breathless, seeing in imagination a panorama of great cities pass

before her eyes.

"Only for a day and a night."

"A night, too?" Margaret exclaimed; for on the occasional visits her

father had paid to London he had gone and returned on the same day. "It

sounds wonderful."

He thought out his words before speaking, as if in his own mind he saw

the outcome of things that were going to happen. "All the same," he

said, "you will probably be glad to come back."

"Yes, father, yes," she exclaimed, joyfully; "but then I shall know, I

shall have seen and remember it all. Dear mother!" and she turned to her

again, hungry for her sympathy.

Mrs. Vincent always understood, and she put her arm round Margaret,

while she asked her husband, "Where will you stay if you don't come back

till the next day, and will Margaret's things be good enough?"

"We shall stay--oh, at the Langham, I suppose. Of course they will be

good enough."

He went back to his papers and took up the two letters again. The one

from his brother was merely a reiteration of what he had said before.

The important part in it was that which concerned his health. Lately

there had been disturbing threats; it was possible that symptoms might

develop which would hurry the inevitable. It was to take a specialist's

opinion, so far as might be gathered from a letter, to see his lawyers,

and to arrange for a probable voyage in the near future that Mr. Vincent

was going to London. But it was the other letter that he lingered over,

the one written on gray paper with violet ink. Long ago that handwriting

had greeted him every morning. It had been a symbol of happiness, of all

the world to him. He read the letter again:

"You will be surprised to hear from me after all these years; but I

heard from Cyril lately; he gave me your address, and I feel that I

must write to you. He told me of your marriage, and that you have a

daughter. I knew nothing about you before, except what I gathered

from your articles in the _Fortnightly_. Do you never come to

London? If you do, come and see me; we will avoid all reference to

painful by-gones and meet as old friends. I was near you last

summer. I drove over with my girl and Tom Carringford (you remember

his father) to look at a house we thought of taking. If I had

known--

"Let me hear from you. I want to be told that I am forgiven for all

the trouble I caused you, and that you will one day come and shake

my hand. Perhaps you will bring your child to see me.

"Yours always,

"HILDA LAKEMAN."

Gerald Vincent sat and thought of the years ago and of a ball--it seemed

a strange thing for him to remember a ball--and a long, maddening

waltz; he could hear the crash of the "Soldaten Lieder" now, the

long-drawn-out end, and the hurrying to the cool air. The girl on his

arm wore a black dress--she was in mourning for her sister, he

remembered--and some lilies were at her waist. The scent of them came

back to him through all the years. He saw the people passing in the dim

light; they had drawn back--he and she--so as not to be seen; he heard

the sound of laughter, the buzz of voices, the uneasy beginning of the

next dance. He remembered her perfect self-possession, and his own

awkwardness, that had made him let the opportunity to speak slip by; but

it had seemed to him that words were unnecessary. Looking back, he felt

that she had been interested in the hour rather than sharing it, and he

wondered, with a little sorry amusement at the remembrance of her

manner, how much or how little she had really felt. He thought of the

summer that followed, of days on the river in late July, when the London

season was in its last rushing days, the sound of oars, the trailing of

the willows at the water's edge, the visits to house-boats, the merry

little luncheon-party on the point at Cookham. Mrs. Berwick had been the

discreetest of chaperons, and when they had drunk their coffee--vile

coffee it had been--he and Hilda had wandered off while the others

stayed drowsily behind. How strange it was to think of it all! He could

feel still her arms clinging round his neck, and hear her low,

passionate whisper--"Yes, yes, I love you--I love you--I love you!"

Words had never come easily to him, and he had been ashamed of his

dumbness when she could find them. Remembering them now, her tones rang

false. He thought of his ordination, and the happy winter when gradually

he had put aside the foolish dissipations, and work and love made up his

life; of the curacy he held for a little while. Hilda had been full of

some scheme; he understood it dimly when he went to the bishop's palace

and she had whispered--it was the first sign of what was coming--"Who

knows but that some day we shall be installed here, you and I?" The

bishop gave him a living later, and she cried, triumphantly: "I made

father do it. It's the first step. I shall never be satisfied till you

are on the top one." The speech worried him, grated on him all through

the long first evening by his vicarage fire, though he tried to forget

it. He read her letter the next morning almost desperately; luckily it

had been a simple, affectionate one, and he thanked God for it, and

prayed that all her desire might be, as his was, in the doing of the

work before them, in the good they might bring to others, and not in the

reward they would personally reap from it. There had been a happy time

after that, just as if he had been heard. He remembered his simple

faith in her, his peace and security in those days, with wonder. At the

end of the summer he had not wanted to leave his parish so soon after

going to it, so he stayed on through August and September while Hilda

went with her people to the Engadine. A man came down to stay with

him--a queer chap, Orliter, of All Souls, professor of philosophy now at

a Scotch university. Orliter brought a cartload of books with him; he

read them all day and smoked, and Gerald did the same. Then followed

talks that grew more and more eager; often enough the night passed and

daylight came while they were still arguing--nights that were symbolical

of the darkness he walked through, and then the slow dawn of what seemed

to him to be the truth.

It wanted courage to do the rest, but he had done it. There had been the

difficult interview with the bishop, and the long, miserable one with

Hilda, who had treated his new views as though they could be thrown

aside as easily as a coat could be taken off. She had implored him to

remember that they meant the blighting of his career, social ruin, the

desertion of his friends, the breaking of her heart. It would be

impossible, she had explained to him, to marry a man her friends would

not receive--a man without position or prospects or money, with only

talents which he was evidently going to apply in a wrong direction, and

opinions that would create a little desert round him. He had looked at

her aghast. To him truth was the first condition of life and honor; to

her it was of no consequence if it spelled inexpediency. Her attitude

resulted in his writing some articles that made his position worse in a

worldly sense; but he loved her all the time, his infatuation even

became greater as he saw the impossibility of sympathy or agreement

between them. But he was too strong a man to let passion master him;

besides, it seemed as if all the time, afar off, Truth stood with the

clear eyes that in later years had been his wife's attraction to him,

and, cool, calm, and unflinching drew him to her--away from the woman

who protested overmuch, from the Church that pointed upward to an empty

sky, from all the penalties and rewards of religion. Whether his

conclusions are right or wrong, a man can but listen to the dictates of

his soul and conscience. And so Gerald Vincent turned his back on all

that he had believed and loved, but remained an honest man. While he was

in Italy, squarely facing the ruin of his life, he heard of Hilda's

marriage. There had been a quarter of a column about it in the daily

papers. He read it a little grimly. A few years later he heard of her

husband's death, but there had been no sign of her in his own life till

the letter came that morning. He read it again, then locked it away in a

desk.

He heard his wife's footsteps pass the door. He rose and looked out.

She was standing in the porch with her back to him and her face towards

the garden, for she and Nature were so near akin that on grave and

silent days they seemed to need each other's greetings. He stood beside

her, and looked silently down at her face with a little sense of

thankfulness, of gratitude, for all the peaceful years he owed her, and

he saw with a pang the deep lines on her face and the grayness of her

hair, as Margaret had done only an hour before.

"Why, father," she said, with a little smile, "what is it?" Then, with

sudden dread, she asked, "Is he worse? Does he want you yet?"

"I'm afraid it won't be long," he answered; "but I shall be able to tell

you better when we come from town."

Hannah grumbled, of course, when she heard of the journey. Then,

grumbling being useless, she busied herself in seeing that Mr. Vincent's

portmanteau was dusted out, and that the key, which was tied to one of

the handles by a bit of string, turned properly in the lock. And a

strange old bag, made of brown canvas and lined with stuff that looked

like bed-ticking, was found to carry the few things that Margaret was to

take. It was the one that Hannah herself often used when she went to

Petersfield, and therefore obviously good enough for any other member of

the household. But Mr. Vincent looked at it with surprise; he

remembered in his youth seeing the under-gardener's son set off for

Liverpool, and the bag he carried was just like this one.

"I think we must buy something else for you in London, Margey," he said.

"Oh, I dare say you'll do a great deal when you get there," Hannah

struck in, sharply. "It's to be hoped you'll take her to see Westminster

Abbey and St. Paul's, to say nothing of the City Temple and the

Tabernacle and Exeter Hall. It would be as well for her to see that, in

one way or another, people have thought a good deal of religion, though

you and others like you put yourselves above it." She waited, but Mr.

Vincent showed no sign of having heard her. "I'm afraid that one day

you'll find you have made a mistake," she went on. He pulled out a

little pouch and rolled up a cigarette.

"Are you going to drive us to the station yourself?" he asked.

"I suppose I'd better," she answered. "I don't know what's come to that

boy lately. If I send him over to Haslemere he never knows when to get

back."

So the cart came round on Monday morning. Mr. Vincent and Hannah got up

in front, and Margaret behind, with the portmanteau and the canvas bag

on either side of her. Mrs. Vincent stood waving her handkerchief till

they were out of sight, then went with a sigh to the best parlor,

thinking it would be as well to take advantage of her husband's absence

and give it an extra tidying.

The postman came a little later. He trudged round to the back door,

where he sat down on a four-legged stool that the boy had painted gray

only last week, and prepared for a little talk with Towsey.

"Have you heard that the house on the hill is let?" he was saying. "Some

one from London has taken it for the whole summer."

"What have you brought, postman?" Mrs. Vincent asked. He handed her a

letter for Hannah. A smile came to her lips when she saw it. "It's the

hand that directed the Christmas card," she said to herself. "And it's

my belief that Mr. Garratt's coming at last."