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And then there is the set of miniature Georgian salt cellars . but you will know what you have taken. " She would be cool and cutting.

She'd had to put up with Peggy Mather over the years because her dismissal would have offended Miss Shawcross. Well now, this is where she could hit back.

But when some time later she entered the kitchen and saw Peggy muffled up ready to go, she said none of these things, she merely looked at her straight and said, "I won't be needing you any more after tonight, Peggy. I will send your money and cards down tomorrow. You had better take your aprons with you." She pointed to a drawer.

After returning her look with a dark, venomous blaze for some long seconds, Peggy tore open the drawer and hauled out her aprons. Then, confronting Grace, she muttered, "To be pushed off like this after all these years ... by God, I'll have me own back!"

"I have no doubt of that, Peggy, but I should advise you not to start until the end of the week when I'll have left the village. It would be a pity if at this stage your aunt and you had to part company."

The look that Peggy levelled on her reminded Grace of Stephen, and when the kitchen door banged she went to it and, after locking it, stood with her back against it, her eyes closed and her breath coming in gasps. Well, that was over. Thank God that was over. It was all over, all the secrecy, the lying, the fear. She was alone . alone.

She opened her eyes and saw the emptiness inside of her widen until she felt she would drown in it. The next minute she was running through the hall and up the stairs and into her bedroom. Pulling the curtains back from the window, she held them wide for a second, then closed them before opening them wide again. Through the gap where the beech had stood she expected to see a speck of light far up on the fells. He said he'd be waiting for her signal. There was no speck of light. Oh, Andrew, where are you? Come quickly, quickly. She turned from the window. The house was so quiet, empty, bare. She walked on to the landing . "As ye sow, so shall ye reap."

"Ask and ye shall receive." She had asked for Andrew and she had got him . at a price.

But where was he? He said he would wait for the signal and come down at once. Oh, Andrew. She stopped at the head of the stairs; it was as if a hand had come out from the ornate frame and halted her. Slowly she turned her head and looked up at Donald. For a moment she imagined his eyes moved. His whole face seemed to be moving, smiling, a self-satisfied proud smile . there was a supercilious lift to his lips.

"As ye sow, so shall ye reap." She put up her hand and crushed the flowers entwined in the frame . then slowly her fingers relaxed. She had not sworn. She looked back into the eyes and whispered aloud, "You can do no more; I will be happy in spite of you.

I can even have another child . do you hear that . another child.

"

But no . she turned from the picture and went slowly down the stairs no more children, only Andrew.

Andrew! She stood in the centre of the hall; the house was so lonely.

Had anything happened to Andrew? What if he had fallen out there on the fells, he could lie there all night. Don't be silly, don't be silly. Andrew knew the fells like the back of his hand. She would phone Aunt Aggie and tell her what had happened. What was she talking about? Aunt Aggie was down at the cottage.

She had thought it would be a change to spend Christmas there. Hadn't Andrew gone down with her and her friend to see them settled in, and stay with them until Boxing Day? That had been the arrangement. But he hadn't been able to stay away, he had come back. If only he hadn't come back . Be quiet, be quiet.

She went into the drawing-room and looked about her. It looked gay .

tree, lights and holly. This was Christmas night and the house was dead. She put her hands to her head, and as she did so the front-door bell rang. She ran like a child to it, and when she opened it and saw Andrew standing there she fell against him crying, "Oh, Andrew!

Andrew! "

"There. There."

"I signalled and you didn't answer ... I was frightened."

"I've been outside for some time. I couldn't stay up there any longer.

I've just seen her go. "

"Oh, my dear, let me take your coat."

"No, Grace, I'm not staying here."

"What!" Her mouth was agape.

"And neither are you. We couldn't start our life here. Not in this house. Go and get your coat, wrap up well. I'll put out the lights."

"Yes, yes, Andrew." She turned quickly from him and ran up the stairs, and in a matter of minutes she had joined him again. He looked at her for a moment, then, pulling the collar of her coat up around her neck, he led her towards the door, and when they reached it he switched out the last light. It took them nearly half an hour to get to the cottage, and as she stood taking off her outdoor things Andrew lit the lamp and in its first fluttering gleam she saw that he had prepared for her coming.

For there before the fire and between the two worn armchairs was a set tea-table, warm and inviting.

"Oh, Andrew!"

"Sit yourself down and leave this to me ... this is my show." He was smiling at her.

"No talking now, just sit there." He pressed her into the chair and touched her cheek once before turning away to make the tea. When he had done this he sat opposite to her, handing her food and pressing her to eat, looking at her all the while, and her heart and spirits began to lift under his look. His face appeared almost boyish again in the lamplight. After some time, during which he still continued to look at her in this odd sweet way, she said, "What is it, Andrew?" His eyes left hers for a moment and he leant towards her across the flame of the fire and took her hands. And when he looked at her again he said softly, "I've dreamed of this for years, ever since the day I saw you in the kitchen, and you seemed to hold those roses out to me. It's a fact, night after night I'd see you sitting just there, and I was always pouring the tea, not you.... Funny, and it didn't end there."

"No?"

"No."

"Tell me."

"Later when I've cleared away."

And later when he had cleared away he came to her and, pulling her up gently, placed her on his knee, and they talked, not of the happenings of the day, but of the cottage near Buckfastleigh and how he would find work on one of the farms near at hand. She knew this too was part of his dream.

Some time later still, the fire banked down, the lamp turned out, he picked her up in his arms and, walking sideways, carried her up the narrow stairs; she laughed into his neck. And when on the tiny square of landing he placed her on her feet and, chuckling himself, said, "It was much easier in the dream," her laughter rose, filling her body, shaking her as if with ague, until with a burst her mirth exploded in a torrent of tears which seemed to spring from every outlet of her face.

"Oh, Andrew! Andrew!"

"There, my love."

"Nothing matters, Andrew; nothing matters any more. Nothing, nothing."

Only the loss of Stephen and Beatrice . and Jane. Oh, Jane. Jane.

THE END