Alan always enjoyed his home visits, not only because he loved his parents with a tenderness and respect rare in these modern days of revolt against domestic authority, but also on account of the quiet and well-ordered life which made the vicarage so uncommonly pleasant. Mrs. Fuller was a famous housewife, and managed her establishment with such rare tact that she kept her servants for years. Her husband’s income was not a large one, but no one would have guessed this, seeing the perfectly appointed dinner-table and the dainty meal prepared. The vicar’s wife had brought to her husband by way of dowry a quantity of valuable old furniture, so that every room looked graciously beautiful. And as the house was quaint and old, and kept in perfect repair and order, those not in the secret of the income believed that the Fullers had ample means. But everything grateful to the eye and the touch and the palate was due to the “vicaress,” as her husband jocularly called her. The worst-tempered person in the world would have succumbed to the soothing influences which permeated the place. “Home, home, sweet, sweet home,” hummed Alan, when the trio sat in the fragrant old drawing-room after an admirable dinner. “Mother darling, you have no idea how restful this is, after the noise and bustle of London.” Mrs. Fuller smiled from her favorite chair, and went on with her tatting, busy as a bee, for she was rarely idle. In her silver-grey dress with a lace cap of dainty gossamer resting on her white hair, worn cast back after the style of Marie Antoinette, and her old-fashioned set of amethyst ornaments, she looked singularly charming. In the subdued light which came through the pink lampshades she looked like some gentle ghost of early Victorian days, soothingly womanly and motherly. She had grown old gracefully, and as the diamonds flashed from her rings while she tatted diligently Alan thought what a delightful gentlewoman she looked, placid, dignified and gracious. It was the vicar who answered his son’s question, although Alan had scarcely put his remark as such. “Ah, my boy, you’d soon grow weary of this drowsy place, and would long for the crowded hour of glorious life. It is the contrast that makes you appreciate our Eden.” Mrs. Fuller nodded her approval. “White always shows up best against black.” “Well, you have had some London black down here lately, mother.” And when she looked at him inquiringly, Alan continued, “I mean the funeral.” The vicar’s face grew sad. “Yes! yes! That was indeed an unpleasant reminder of what lies beyond our quiet hills. Poor Grison and poor Louisa tool I do not know which I am most sorry for.” “For Louisa?” said Mrs. Fuller, raising her quiet eyes. “You need not be sorry for her, John. She did her duty and more than her duty by that poor creature who has gone to his account, so she has nothing to reproach herself with. I am glad she is staying for a few days, as I wish to have a talk with her.”