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to Australia.
    And what about the preparations he needed to make for his own trip? He and Cynthia would be going out to Meadowgate in mid-January, to farm-sit for Hal and Marge Owen for a year. As the farm was only fifteen minutes away, they could dash back and forth to Mitford with ease. Nonetheless . . .
    Andrew Gregory was polishing a Jacobean chest when Father Tim arrived at the Oxford.
    He went directly to Andrew and, without formal greeting or further deliberation, said, “I’ll take it.”
    He thought his voice quavered a bit when he said this, as well it might.

    He decided, as he walked homeward, that he wouldn’t tell a soul what he’d done. Andrew had given him sucha wonderful price on the crèche, he figured he could hardly afford not to buy it. Better still, the check he’d recently received from the sale of his geriatric Buick had covered the purchase, with a good deal to spare.
    He was relieved. Vastly! Without this unexpected income, he would have had to spill the beans to Cynthia, as they’d lately agreed not to spend more than five hundred dollars without consulting the other.
    However—hadn’t his wife bought him a Mustang convertible that cost well above five hundred bucks, without saying a single word to him? And his Montblanc pen, which he’d learned cost more than some people’s monthly mortgages, had also been a complete astonishment. Clearly, his wife believed that if a thing was to be a surprise, there was no cause to go prattling about it to the surprisee. Therefore, he had no intention of feeling guilty over what he fervently hoped and prayed would bring special joy to She Who Loves Surprises.
    Last, but not at all least, Andrew had offered him the south end of the Oxford’s back room in which to labor—“hard by the tap,” as he would need water for his plasterwork.
    Plasterwork!That most daunting of proverbs came to mind: You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
    The Enemy was after him already—he could almost smell the sulfur—but he was refusing the bait. Besides, if that adage was true, Grandma Moses would have been out of work, big time.
    A shimmering October light dappled the sidewalk as he passed beneath a tree. . . .
    And while he was at it, what about Michelangelo’s pronouncement at the tender age of eighty-seven?
    Ancora imparo! I am still learning.
    He said it aloud, “ Ancora imparo! ” and walked up faster, humming a little.

    Dear Hope,
     
    You are faithfully in my prayers, as promised when I left Mitford. It is a great loss, I know, and I thank God that you now have His strength in your life. You will find in the days and months ahead that He will help you bear the sadness and lead you through the grieving with tenderness and grace. From the horrendous experience of losing three of my grandparents at once, I can truthfully say there will even be times when He blesses you with a certain joy.
    My grandmother, Leila, is like a lamp with an eternal wick, and a great encouragement to everyone in her nursing home. Naturally, I went into my work mode and had them dancing on Wednesday, making pizzas on Thursday, and producing a talent show on Friday. I wish you could have seen the guy, ninety years old, who played a harmonica—he was great . They’re all exhausted from my visit, and so are Luke and Lizzie, who have done double time. I’m really glad I came, and will tell you all about it when we get back. Thanks for praying for our trip, I really appreciate it.
    I think about you a lot. Remember to save some time for me to take you to dinner when I come home to Mitford next week.
     
    In His mercy,
Scott
     
    In the back room of Happy Endings, Hope finished reading the second letter on her desk and held it for a moment close to her heart. She had never received a love letter before.
    She was, of course, the only one who would think it a love letter, as there was no mention of love in it, at all. Yet she could feel love beating in each word, in every stroke of