surprise her housekeeping and catch her unprepared. On one occasion,
indeed, when the family came down--rather late--for breakfast, Aunt
Harriet was discovered sitting on the rustic seat outside the
dining-room window. She explained that she had taken the 5 a.m.
workmen's train and had come to spend a long day with them, but not
wishing to disturb the house at too early an hour she had remained in
the garden enjoying the view until somebody arrived downstairs. In
spite of her rather angular attitude, Miss Beach was a very kind and
generous friend to her widowed niece, and she was the one person in the
world to whom Mrs. Woodward naturally thought of turning in time of
trouble. Aunt Harriet's advice might not always be palatable, but it was
combined with such practical help that there seemed no alternative but
to follow it.

Miss Beach, though not a rich woman, was possessed of very comfortable
private means. She lived in an old-fashioned house just opposite the
Abbey, and her windows looked out on a view of towers and cloisters and
tall lime trees, with a foreground of monuments. To some people the
array of tombstones would have proved a dismal prospect, but she
declared it never distressed her in the least. She prided herself
greatly on the fact that she had been born in the house where her
father, grandfather and great-grandfather had also come into the world
and spent their lives. Except for an occasional expedition to Highfield,
she rarely left home. All her interests were in Seaton, and she became
miserable directly if she were away from her native city.

The little Woodwards had never regarded it as much of a treat to go and
stay at 10, Abbey Close. The restraint which the visit necessitated
quite neutralized the afternoon at the cinema with which their aunt
invariably entertained them. The fine old Chippendale furniture had to