wild flowers along the roadsides and in
the woodlands. They had knitted and made lace together, gone to
picnics and parties, always together, until the time came when a tall
Green Valley boy walked beside each. And even then they were
inseparable. Why, they made their wedding things together and when
Mollie Wentworth passed out of the village church a wife, Cynthia,
lovely as the bride, walked behind as bridesmaid. And Mollie was to
have returned the favor in a few days. But something happened,
something tragic and cruel, and lovely Cynthia never wore the wedding
gown that had been fashioned for her. It was packed away and on what
was to have been her wedding day Cynthia left Green Valley and was gone
a long while. She came back once or twice but in the end Green Valley
heard that she married a wonderful missionary and sailed away to India.

So Grandma's hand shook and her face was white. But when the covering
slipped off and a lovely, laughing face looked down at them Grandma
smiled, even though the tears were running down her cheeks.

Yes, that was Cynthia. Disappointment could never mar the high joy of
her nature. She was laughing at them, telling them that with all its
sorrows and bitterness and heartache life was worth while.

Her son stood beneath her picture and read to them parts of her
letters, last messages to many of them. She had written them on her
deathbed and they were full of yearning for the town of her birth, for
the old trees and familiar flowers, home voices and the sound of the
old church bell sighing through the summer night.

"But," ran one letter, "I am sending you my son and I want you to tell
him all the old stories and town chronicles, sing him all the old songs
and love him for my sake--for he's going home--going home to Green
Valley--alone."

Oh, they cried, those Green Valley folks, for they were as one family
and they guessed what it must have been to die away from home and
kindred.

But Cynthia's son did not weep. He had shed his tears long ago and had
learned to smile. He was smiling at them now.

"I had planned to have Jim Tumley sing some of the old songs for us
to-night. But Jim isn't here and so if somebody will offer to play
them we can all sing. Jim promised he'd come," the young host's face
was troubled and they all guessed what was worrying him, "but he isn't
here--"

"Yes--he--is," a strange voice chirped somewhere near the door. Green
Valley turned an