“Oh, I have no doubt she is very unhappy.  But as you say we must not be uncharitable.  I suppose you will have to write about the cottage.”

“I suppose so,” said Mr. Ambrose doubtfully.  “I cannot send her back the money, and the cottage is certainly to let.”

He deposited the cheque in the drawer of his writing-table and began to walk up and down the room, glancing up from time to time at his wife who was lifting one after another the ornaments which stood upon the chimney-piece, in order to ascertain whether Susan had dusted underneath them.  She had many ways of assuring herself that people did their work properly.

“No,” said she, “you cannot send her back the money.  But it is a very solemn responsibility.  I hope we are doing quite right.”

“I certainly would not hesitate to return the cheque, my dear, if I thought any harm would come of Mrs. Goddard’s living here.  But I don’t think there is any reason to doubt her story.”

“Of course not.  It was in the Standard, so there is no doubt about it.  I only hope no one else reads the papers here.”

“They read them in the kitchen,” added Mrs. Ambrose presently, “and they probably take a paper at the Duke’s Head.  Mr. Boosey is rather a literary character.”

“Nobody will suppose it was that Goddard, my dear,” said the vicar in a reassuring tone of voice.

“No—­you had better write about the cottage.”

“I will,” said the vicar; and he forthwith did.  And moreover, with his usual willingness to give himself trouble for other people, he took a vast deal of pains to see that the cottage was really habitable.  It turned out to be in very good condition.  It was a pretty place enough, standing ten yards back from the road, beyond the village, just opposite the gates of the park; a little square house of red brick with a high pointed roof and a little garden.  The walls were overgrown with creepers which had once been trained with considerable care, but which during the last two years had thriven in untrimmed luxuriance and now covered the whole of the side of the house which faced the road.  So thickly did they grow that it was with difficulty that the windows could at first be opened.  The vicar sighed as he entered the darkened rooms.  His daughter had lived in the cottage when she first married the young doctor who had now gone to London, and the vicar had been, and was, very fond of his daughter.  He had almost despaired of ever seeing her again in Billingsfield; the only glimpses of her he could obtain were got by going himself to town, for the doctor was so busy that he always put off the projected visit to the country and his wife was so fond of him that she refused to go alone.  The vicar sighed as he forced open the windows upon the lower floor and let the light into the bare and empty rooms which had once been so bright and full of happiness.  He wondered what sort of person Mrs. Goddard would turn out to be upon nearer acquaintance, and made vague, unconscious conjectures about her furniture as he stumbled up the dark stairs to the upper story.