t hobby.

"And Aunt Janet," Joan questioned, "she always used to like taking Sally
out."

"I suppose that was when you were here;" he looked down at her sideways,
"she missed you, I think, but she potters about the village sometimes."
He relapsed into silence, and Joan could see that his thoughts were once
more far away.

Several of the villagers came out as they passed through the little
village street to bob greetings to the young lady of the manor, as they
had always called Joan. Wrotham did not boast many county families;
there was no squire, for instance. The Rutherfords occupied the old
manor house and filled the position to a great extent, but they owned
none of the land in the neighbourhood, and the villagers were not really
their tenants. And beyond the Rutherfords there was no one in the
village who could undertake parochial work except the vicar, a
hard-working, conscientiously mild gentleman, with a small income and a
large family. He could give plenty of spiritual advice and assistance,
but little else; the old people and the invalids of the parish looked to
Aunt Janet for soups and warm clothes and kindly interest.

Wrotham boasted a doctor too. As Joan remembered him he had been a
gentleman of very rubicund complexion and rough manners. Village gossip
had held that he was too fond of the bottle, but when sober he was
kindly and efficient enough for their small needs. He had been
unmarried and had lived under the charge of a slovenly housekeeper. As
the Rutherfords drove past his house, a square brick building with a
front door that opened on to the village street, Joan noticed an
unfamiliar air of spruce cleanliness about the front door and the window
blinds.

"Dr. Simpson has had a spring cleaning," she said, pointing out the
transformation to Colonel Rutherford.

He came out of his reverie, whatever it was, and glanced at the house.
"No," he said, "Simpson has left. There are new people in there. Grant
is their name, I think. Young chap and his sister and their old mother.
Came to call the other day; nice people, but very ignorant about
gardens. Your aunt has taken a great fancy to the young man."

With that the trap turned into the wide open gates of the manor, and
Joan, seeing the old house, was conscious of a quick rush of
contentment. She had come home; how good it was to be home.

The house, a beautiful grey building of the Tudor days, stood snug and
warm amid a perfect bower of giant tre