e fine old heavy chair that a long-gone Churchill had with his
own hands fashioned from his own walnut trees.

There were pictures to look at, old familiar faces, the faces of men
and women who had been born and raised in this joyous little valley
town; who had gone to the village school and had in their courting days
strolled over the shady old town roads.

Here was a picture of Cynthia's mother in a crinoline with her baby on
her knee. There was a famous artist's painting of a storm passing over
the wooded knoll that now was John Knight's favorite retreat. The
famous artist had been visiting John Knight and had painted the storm
as he watched it from the sitting-room windows.

There were old candlesticks, guns, old dishes, old patterns, hand-sewn
quilts and such little things of long ago as stirred the oldest folks
there very nearly to tears and awed even the youngsters into a
wondering respect for the old days they could never know.

The old house hummed with the treasured memories of a hundred years.
Groups of twos and threes stood everywhere about, hovering over some
article. In every such group there would be at first a short hushed
silence, then would come the sudden burst of memories spattering like a
shower of raindrops; then the turning away of eyes full of misty,
unbelieving, far-away smiles.

Cynthia's son watched and smiled too. But his thoughts flew back and
he longed with a cruel ache for the mother who lay sleeping in a far
and foreign land.

By and by a gong sounded somewhere. That was the signal for supper.
So they gathered around the tables and Cynthia's son explained that
Bernard Rollins had for the last three months been painting a portrait
of Cynthia Churchill, Cynthia as they knew her. That was why Rollins
had searched old albums for pictures that might give him an idea of the
sweetness of her smile. That was the surprise of the evening and the
meaning of the shrouded picture above the library fireplace. She had
so loved Green Valley, had so longed to be there.

They sat very still and waited while Grandma Wentworth uncovered the
face of the girl who had been so loved by Green Valley folks.
Grandma's face was a little white with memories and the hand that was
reaching for the cord to draw away the covering shook a little.
Cynthia Churchill and she had been dearer to each other than sisters.
They had gone to school together in the days of pinafores and
sunbonnets and picked spring's