Aunt Martha might be, and was, a very poor housekeeper¹; the Rev². John Knox Meredith might be, and was, a very absent-minded, indulgent man. But it could not be denied that there was something very homelike and lovable about the Glen St. Mary manse in spite of its untidiness. Even the critical housewives of the Glen felt it, and were unconsciously mellowed³ in judgment⁴ because of it. Perhaps its charm was in part due to accidental circumstances—the luxuriant vines clustering over its gray, clap-boarded walls, the friendly acacias and balm-of-gileads that crowded about it with the freedom of old acquaintance, and the beautiful views of harbour and sand-dunes from its front windows. But these things had been there in the reign⁵ of Mr. Meredith's predecessor⁶, when the manse had been the primmest⁷, neatest, and dreariest⁸ house in the Glen. So much of the credit must be given to the personality of its new inmates⁹. There was an atmosphere of laughter and comradeship about it; the doors were always open; and inner and outer worlds joined hands. Love was the only law in Glen St. Mary manse.