Mrs. Dulcimer talked about her to the parlourmaid, while she was dusting the drawing-room china. The servants at the Vicarage were all old retainers, who by faithful service had become interwoven in the very fabric of the family life. The Vicar and his wife could hardly have believed that home was home with strange faces round them. Crisp, the man of all work, and Rebecca, the confidential maid, were as much an integral part of life as the dark ridge of moorland, and the gray church tower, the winding river, the Vicar’s library, and the faithful old pointer, Ponto, which had not stood to a bird for the last seven years, but held the position of friend and familiar, and lived in a land overflowing with milk and honey. ‘What a nice young lady Miss Scratchell is, Rebecca!’ said Mrs. Dulcimer, as she flecked a grain of dust off a Chelsea shepherdess with her feather-brush. The Vicar’s wife was rarely seen between breakfast and noon without a feather-brush in her hand. ‘Have you remarked it?’ ‘She ain’t so handsome as Miss Harefield,’ answered Rebecca, frankly, ‘but she’s a deal affabler. They give her a very good character at the Park--always punkshall, and a great favourite with the children.’ ‘She is just the sort of girl to do well in life, Rebecca. She ought to get a good husband.’ Rebecca gave a loud sniff, scenting mischief. ‘That’s as Providence pleases, ma’am,’ she retorted, rubbing the fender with her chamois leather; ‘marriages is made in heaven.’ ‘Perhaps, Rebecca. But a poor man’s daughter like Bella Scratchell has a very poor chance of meeting an eligible person. Unless it is in this house, I don’t think she sees any one worth speaking of.’ ‘There’s the Park, ma’am,’ suggested Rebecca, rubbing the fender almost savagely. ‘Oh! at the Park she is only a dependant--quite looked down upon, you may be sure; for though Mrs. Piper is a good creature, she is a thorough _parvenue_. Miss Scratchell never sees any of the Park visitors, you may be sure. She only lunches at the children’s dinners. They don’t even ask her to play the piano at their parties. They have a man from Great Yafford. Now don’t you think, Rebecca, that Mr. Culverhouse would be a nice match for Miss Scratchell?’ Rebecca wheeled round upon her knees and confronted her mistress.