close to
annoyance that she looked at the sprawling figure of the usurper.

"Well, for pity sakes! What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked at her. She fitted in so well
with the velvet whisper of the wind, the cool blue of the sky and the
world's fresh beauty that he took her appearance as a part of the
picture and was silent. It was only when she repeated her question
rather sharply that he sat up to explain.

"Why, I found this spot months ago! It is the stillest, most heavenly
nook in Green Valley. I come up here whenever I'm tired of thinking."

"Well--I found this place years and years ago," Nanny complained.

"What's the matter with us both using it?" he said very civilly.

"But," objected Nan, "this is the sort of a place that you want all to
yourself."

"Yes, it is," he agreed and did not let the situation worry him
further. He didn't offer her a seat or give her a chance to take
herself off gracefully. And Nanny was beginning to feel a little
awkward. She wasn't used to being ignored in this strange fashion.

"Are you very old?" the minister asked suddenly and looked up at her
with eyes as innocent and serene as a child's.

"I'm twenty-three," Nan was startled into confessing.

"Why aren't you married?"

As she gasped and searched about for an answer he added:

"In India a girl is a grandmother at that age."

"This isn't India," smiled Nan good-naturedly, for she saw quite
suddenly that this big young man knew very little about women,
especially western women.

"No--this isn't India." He repeated her words slowly, little wrinkles
of pain ruffling his face. For his inner eye was blotting out the
Green Valley picture and painting in its stead the India of his memory,
the India of gorgeous color, the bazaars, the narrow streets; the India
that held within its mystic arms two plain white stones standing side
by side and bearing the inscriptions "Father" and "Mother."

Nan, not guessing what was going on in his heart, took advantage of his
silence to get even.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Why aren't you married?"

"Why in the world should I be?" he wanted to know.

"Green Valley men are usually the fathers of two or three children at
your age," she informed him calmly.

"Oh," he smiled frankly, "of course I shall marry some day. But a man
need never hurry. He, unlike a woman, can always marry. And I intend
to have children--many