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Her Aunt Susan and Uncle Ralph liked Donald, and both said that he was the kind of man her mother would have liked her to marry. For had not her parents moved into the best part of Newcastle so as to be able to give her a background that would in no way be incongruous to the boarding-school education they insisted on her having, and which was to prepare her to meet, and mate, with someone like Donald. Yes, they said, poor dear Linda would have been over the moon at her daughter's choice, for was not Donald Rouse, besides looking and talking like a gentleman, the nephew of a bishop.

Yet no approbation of her Aunt Susan and Uncle Ralph could make up for her Aunt Aggie's open hostility, for she liked her Aunt Aggie loved her; she had always had a guilty feeling about her affection for her Aunt Aggie because she knew it was stronger than that which she had for her parents. But now she was finished with her Aunt Aggie; she couldn't be anything else after the things she had said about Donald, kept on saying about him even to the very night before the wedding.

"That fellow's after your money, that's all he wants," that's what she had dared to say about Donald, who was a parson. On that last night Aggie had shouted so that she had rushed and closed the "drawing-room door and begged, " Oh, be quiet. Aunt Aggie. Donald will be calling any minute. Oh, how can you say such things? "

"I can and will. Somebody's got to say them; the others can't 'cos they're mesmerised like you. Look, Grace." Aggie's voice had dropped and there came a note of urgent pleading into it.

"Listen to me. He's a good-looking fellow granted, although he's old enough to be your father, but from my experience that kind of man doesn't look for a good-looking wife not your type, anyway." Her voice sank even lower now as she went on, "Don't you realise it. Grace, you're not only good-looking, you're a beautiful girl. You could have anybody you had a mind to point at. I could name half a dozen men in this town who would jump if you raised your finger. The only reason they are keeping their distance at present is because you are so young and your folks haven't been dead six months yet. But that doesn't seem to trouble your parson friend. And another thing, if that fellow had wanted anything but

money he'd have been married afore the day at his age, going on thirty-eight. "

Grace was crying now and had protested, "Oh, Aunt Aggie, how can you?"

"I can and I will," she had repeated over again, 'and I'm going to tell you this. Grace. It will be the sorriest day's work you'll do in your life if you marry that man the morrow. I tell you I know the type.

They're like some of the great big whopping turnips you see, fine on the outside but boast inside. It's all the same with these big beauties, and you'll find you'll want more than a good-looking face on the pillow to get you happily through marriage. Aye, you will. And what about your music, eh? What about that? D'you think he'll let you go on with that . ? You wait and see. "

And now as Grace lay looking into the beautiful face she knew Aunt Aggie was wrong, so terribly wrong, and she felt sorry for Aunt Aggie, because for years she had been looked upon as the oracle of the family.

Her father used to say nobody could hoodwink Aggie. She had a head on her, had Aggie. How many women after losing their husbands would, or could, carry on his job, and the tricky one at that, of buying and selling property? But Aggie had done it. Yes, Aggie was astute, and cute.

As Donald rose from the bed, his hand trailing slowly from hers, she forgot her Aunt Aggie, for who could think of a domineering, middle-aged, fat little woman when they were murmuring, "Oh, darling, darling, I do love you." Yet somewhere in her mind, she was vowing, I'll make Aunt Aggie eat her words. I will, I will. No-one, no-one in the world must dislike Donald . anyway, how could they?

By the end of the honeymoon she was a little tired of looking at architecture, Byzantine, Gothic, and the rest,

and she was secretly looking forward to taking up her life at the vicarage, and, as she said to herself doing things with it. She knew exactly what alterations she was going to make to that big, draughty house, but she knew that she would have to move cautiously, for Donald had emphasised, and strongly, that she must be prepared to live within his means. And to think that Aunt Aggie . Donald had himself been only three months in the village of Deckford, and, as he said, was still feeling his feet. He was also, she knew, still smarting under the reason for his banishment from St. Bernard's.

He had made light of it when it happened, saying to her, "You want to know the reason why I've got to go. Well, can you give me your undivided attention for the next few days to listen to the history of the Church I'll have to start with the Reformation." His voice had become sad as he ended.

"I am, as you know, innately what you might call High Church, and St.

Bernard's is innately what you might term Low Church. My job, when I was sent there, was to bring the two to a moderate meeting point, but I'm afraid my zeal has carried me over that point and annoyed a number of people, so I am being banished to a little village, but where, oddly enough' he laughed here 'they are rather partial to trappings." It was on the day he told her this that she knew she loved him and couldn't live without him, and on the day he actually moved to Deckford he asked her to marry him and she fell into his arms . But it was decreed that Grace was not to live in the vicarage at Deckford. The weather took a hand in her destiny, for during a gale, and only three days before they returned from Italy, one of the two large chimneys crashed through the roof and caused a great amount of damage. Uncle Ralph, taking things in hand, made it his

business to find them temporary accommodation against their return.

This accommodation was the home of the late Miss Tupping and called Willow Lea. The house and its contents were up for sale, and the business was in the hands of Bertrand Farley, Junior, who had been Miss Tupping's solicitor. Bertrand Farley saw no reason why the house should not be rented for a few weeks, for privately he could not see it being sold at any price. There was a slump hitting the country, and it was improbable he would get an early sale for a place such as Willow Lea . So it was that Grace returned to a home which de lighted her heart with its air of graciousness, and she determined right away that she was going to do all in her power to remain there, for her Donald, she saw at once, loved the house. Although he said not a word in its favour until a month later when they were about to leave it. It was this moment that Grace had been waiting for and she put into words what had been in her mind since she had first entered the door. Why shouldn't they live here permanently? Why couldn't they buy it?

What? Donald was up in arms. The suggestion met with a complete refusal. No, she knew the arrangement they had agreed on, they must live within his means. Of course he liked the house, but that did not mean, etc. " etc. Grace was not deterred: she sent for her Uncle Ralph and Aunt Susie, and there was a meeting in the drawing-room during which Donald gradually, but only gradually, became amenable.

Once his consent was gained, the rest was a mere formality.

Willow Lea was bought as it stood, furniture included, at the bargain price of 4,000. There was only one snag that promised to be an irritant, a codicil concerning Benjamin Fairfoot, the gardener.

Benjamin had started with Miss Tapping's family when he was a boy, and when Miss Tupping had had a new house built for herself she and Benjamin Fairfoot between them had designed and created the gardens, and the codicil provided against Benjamin's dismissal. Whoever purchased the house must sign to the effect that he would be kept on as gardener, as long as he so desired.

Grace saw nothing in this to worry about, it did not even call for consideration . of course Benjamin would be kept on, he was part of the garden. She liked Ben, he talked Geordie and reminded her of old Jack Cummings, except that up to date she hadn't heard him swear.

Jack Cummings had been one of her father's men when they lived next to the coal depot. She knew that it was because she liked to play around Jack and had acquired a little of his vocabulary that her mother had insisted on her being sent away to school in the first place.

Uncle Ralph's opinion of the codicil was much the same as Grace's own.

"Oh, that's nowt," he said, "I'd say you're lucky to have such a fellow as that thrown in. You're lucky altogether, me lass."

Donald alone questioned the matter of Ben's compulsory employment, the reason he voiced being that they couldn't afford a gardener. Grace had laughed over this.

"We can afford three gardeners," she had said, 'and a full staff inside too. And, what's more, we're going to have them. "

It was a silly thing to say, taking things far too quickly, and it brought upon her head a lecture.

"No, Grace, that'll never do. The gardener ... all right, because our hand is forced ... and a little help in the house, that'll be all right too. But you must remember. Grace, that I'm just an ordinary parson, and only by continuing as such can I hope to hold my parish together.

Any show of undue affluence would be bound to estrange at least one part of the community."

She knew that he was referring to the folk versus the others, and she sighed. She knew he was right. Her Donald was always right, he was so wise. He had explained all this to her before, the difference between the folk, as he called the villagers, and the others. Among which were the Parleys, the hunting Tooles, the doctor, and the schoolmaster in that order. Oh yes, Donald was right.

From when did she first start telling herself several times a day that she was happy? Before she had been married three months? Yes, a while before that. Her days at the beginning left her very little time for private thoughts. Running an eight-roomed house with the part-time help of Mrs. Blenkinsop, and getting initiated into the duties of a parson's wife, which, besides visiting, included taking an active part in the Women's Guild, the Sewing Meeting and the Literary Evening, the latter a new innovation instigated by the vicar, left her a little tired by nightfall. Sometimes she would sit on the rug before the fire, her head resting against Donald's knees, her hand on top of his hand where it covered her hair, and she would almost fall asleep listening to his endearments.

"My energetic little girl is overdoing it."

"No ... no, I'm not." Her voice would often sound as if it was coming through sleep.

"I'm going to take you to bed and tuck you up."

Whenever he spoke in this way she would be roused and say, with a sort of childish petulance which in no way suited her, "Oh, aren't you coming, Donnie?"

"No, I'm not coming. Come along, up you get."

She would be in his arms now and he would be putting on an act of mock sternness.

"How am I going to get any work out of you tomorrow if you don't get your sleep?"

"But, Donald ... " No but Donald, it's bed for you. "

"Yes, and for you." Her finger would be tracing the outline of his mouth.

"After I get my sermon finished."

"But you did that last night."

"No, I didn't get at it. I had to do the address I am giving on Saturday in Newcastle."

"Oh, Donald." Her head would fall wearily against him and he would carry her upstairs and into their room and drop her with a playful plonk on the bed. He never stayed while she undressed. When some time later she would be in bed he would come in again and stroke her hair and kiss her lips, and lastly her eyes, and tuck her up before putting out the light. Sometimes she would sigh happily, then drop off to sleep, but at other times, and more frequently as time went on, when this little scene was enacted, she would kick her legs down the bed or turn on her stomach and push her face into the pillow. She had not cried yet. About this time her mind was lifted from herself by the fact, the stupendous fact, that Aunt Aggie was coming to visit them.

It was Donald who had really brought about this minor miracle, for, from shortly after their return, he had voiced his opinion that it was a great pity her Aunt Aggie was estranged from them, and Grace must try to bring about a reconciliation. She had, on this occasion, received a little private sermon on the poison of malice and the health-giving properties of forgiveness, and as she listened she thought, Oh, if only Aunt Aggie could see him as he really is.

If at that moment Grace herself could have seen him as he really was she still would not have believed that her wonderful Donald could not suffer the thought that anyone could know him and find him not to their liking.

So Grace went to see Aggie, and again she went, and yet again, and at last Aggie said yes. Yes, she would come to see the grand new house .

but just because she was interested in property, mind that was the only reason.

The morning Aggie was due to arrive Grace sidled out of bed around six o'clock, very careful not to wake Donald, and began an onslaught of rearranging and preparation for the visitor. Mrs. Blenkinsop, when she arrived at eight o'clock, did not take kindly to the bustle that was already in progress, and Donald, when he came down to breakfast, exclaimed, "My! My! All this for the dragon. You never make so much fuss about me."

"Oh, Donald, I do. You know I do. And besides. Aunt Aggie isn't a dragon. She's a darling really, once you get to know her."

"She scares me stiff." Donald was in a playful mood.

"Oh, that's funny." She was laughing at him.

"I can't imagine anyone scaring you stiff." She dashed at him now and, flinging her arms around his neck, kissed him.

"You're the one that scares people. D'you know what you do? You scare the pants off them." She accompanied this latter with small jerks of her head, then giggled as she watched Donald's eyebrows move up.

"And where, may I ask, did you hear that edifying piece of news?"

"Ben."

"Ben.... Oh ... when?"

"Yesterday, after you had failed to persuade him to move those hydrangeas."