A fresh, wise-like, middle-aged woman opened the door to visitors, and if you had asked her she would have told you she had been in service with the Macdonalds since she was fifteen, and Mrs.Macdonald would have added that she never could have managed without Agnes.
The sons had worked their way with bursaries and scholarships through school and college, and now three of them were in positions of trust in the government of their country.

One was in London, two in India--and Duncan lay in France, that Holy Land of our people.
It was a nice question his wife used to say before the War (when hearts were lighter and laughter easier) whether Mr.Macdonald was prouder of his sons or his flowers, and when, as sometimes happened he had them all with him in the garden, his cup of content had been full.
And now it seemed to him that when he was in the garden Duncan was nearer him.

He could see the little figure in a blue jersey marching along the paths with a wheelbarrow, very important because he was helping his father.

He had called the big clump of azaleas "the burning bush." ...

He had always been a funny little chap.
And it was in the garden that he had said good-bye to him that last time.