d
instead of being a middle-aged and childless couple.

But that was all the town did know about the matter. For strange to
say Agnes, who had talked loud enough and long enough before about her
unhappiness, now was still, with never a word to say about what made
her so contented and happy. Green Valley saw her look at Hen as if he
were suddenly precious and smooth his pillow and wait on him. And
Green Valley wanted to know all about it. But so far nobody knew but
Agnes, Hen and the new minister and he didn't seem inclined to speak
about it. Not even to satisfy Nanny Ainslee's curiosity.

Once more Nanny was embarrassed and a little angry. She swung up her
sunshade and started to go. This minister man with his ignorance of
women and his knowledge of Hen's domestic affairs was, she told
herself, a crazy, impossible creature and he could sit in his little
grove on his little knoll till he died for all she cared. She'd take
mighty good care never again to stray into his domain.

But just as she really got up speed the big chap under the oak stood up
and spoke.

"Don't go, Nan."

The shock of hearing him say that stopped her and turned her sharply
around, so that she looked straight at him and found him looking at her
in a way that made the whole green world suddenly fade away into misty
insignificance. Something about that look of his made her walk back.

But she trailed her sunshade a little defiantly and kept her eyes down
carefully. She was a little frightened too. Because for the first
time in her life she was conscious of her heart. She felt it beating
queerly and almost audibly. With every step that she took back toward
him she grew strangely happy and strangely angry.

He silently arranged a seat for her beside him and she sat down, folded
her hands in her lap, looked off at the village roofs and waited.

He looked at her a long time. For Nanny was good to look at. Then he
began to talk in an odd, quiet way as if they two were at home alone
and the world was shut out and far away. And he told her the story of
that locked drawer in Hen Tomlins' chiffonier.

That drawer and Hen's growing stubbornness, due no doubt to the gradual
coming on of his serious illness, had very nearly been the death of
poor, dictatorial Agnes Tomlins. She had always picked out Hen's
shirts, bought his ties and ordered his suits and Hen had never
rebelled openly. Nor did he, so far as she knew, ever dare to have a