Now available in large print—the first novel in #1  New York Times  bestselling author Jan Karon’s beloved series set in America’s favorite small town: Mitford. It's easy to feel at home in Mitford. In these high, green hills, the air is pure, the village is charming, and the people are generally lovable. Yet, Father Tim, the bachelor rector, wants something more. Enter a dog the size of a sofa who moves in and won't go away. Add an attractive neighbor who begins wearing a path through the hedge. Now, stir in a lovable but unloved boy, a mystifying jewel theft, and a secret that's sixty years old. Suddenly, Father Tim gets more than he bargained for. And readers get a rich comedy about ordinary people and their ordinary lives. Praise for the Mitford Novels “Karon knits Mitford's small-town characters and multiple story lines into a cozy sweater of a book.”— USA Today “Jan Karon reflects contemporary culture more fully than almost any other living novelist.”— Los Angeles Times “Welcome home, Mitford fans...to Karon's gift for illuminating the struggles that creep into everyday lives—along with a vividly imagined world.”— People “Karon offers her readers another chance to escape their own world, if just for a while, and live in the town that ‘takes care of its own.’ Her readers say they wish Mitford existed so they could move there.”— Richmond Times-Dispatch Jan Karon is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of fifteen novels in the Mitford series, featuring Episcopal priest Father Tim Kavanagh. She has authored twelve other books, including Jan Karon’s Mitford Cookbook and Kitchen Reader , and several titles for children. Jan lives in Virginia near the World Heritage site of Jefferson’s Monticello. The Mitford series was inspired by Jan's life in Western North Carolina, where her Mitford Museum now celebrates the world of Mitford and its stories. To reach out to Jan Karon and to learn more about the Mitford Museum, visit www.themitfordmuseum.org. CHAPTER ONE Barnabas He left the coffee-scented warmth of the Main Street Grill and stood for a moment under the green awning. The honest cold of an early mountain spring stung him sharply. He often noted the minor miracle of passing through a door into a completely different world, with different smells and attractions. It helped to be aware of the little things in life, he told himself, and he often exhorted his congregation to do the same. As he headed toward the church office two blocks away, he was delighted to discover that he wasn’t walking, at all. He was ambling. It was a pleasure he seldom allowed himself. After all, it might appear that he had nothing else to do, when in truth he always had something to do. He decided to surrender himself to the stolen joy of it, as some might eat half a box of chocolates at one sitting, without remorse. He arrived at the office, uttering the prayer he had offered at its door every morning for twelve years: “Father, make me a blessing to someone today, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” As he took the key from his pocket, he felt something warm and disgustingly wet on his hand. He looked down into the face of a large, black, mud-caked dog, whose tail began to beat wildly against his pant leg. “Good grief!” he said, wiping his hand on his windbreaker. At that, the dog leaped up and licked his face, sending a shower of saliva into his right ear. “Get away! Be gone!” he shouted. He tried to protect the notebook he was carrying, but the dog gave it a proper licking before he could stuff it in his jacket, then tried to snatch it from him. He thought of running, but if anyone saw him fleeing before a shaggy, mud-caked dog, everybody in town would know it within the half hour. “Down!” he commanded sharply, at which the dog leaped up and gave his chin a bath. He tried to fend the animal off with his elbow, while inserting the key in the office door. If he were a cussing man, he reasoned, this would offer a premier opportunity to indulge himself. “ ‘Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth,’ ” he quoted in a loud voice from Ephesians, “ ‘but that which is good to the use of edifying ...’” Suddenly, the dog sat down and looked at his prey with fond admiration. “Well, now,” he said irritably, wiping the notebook on his sleeve. “I hope you’ve got that nonsense out of your system.” At this, the dog leaped up, stood on its hind legs, and put its vast paws on the rector’s shoulders. “Father Tim! Father Tim!” It was his part-time secretary, Emma Garrett. He stood helpless, his glasses fogged with a typhoon of moist exhalations. Whop! Emma laid a blow to the dog’s head with her pocketbook. Then, blam, she hit him again on the rear flank. “And don’t come back!” she shouted, as the yelping dog fled into a hedge of rhododendron and disappeared. Emma gave him her handkerchief, which was heavily scented with My Sin. “That wasn’t a dog,” she said with disgust, “that was a Buick!” In the office, he went directly