h she spoke only to Ruth everybody heard. It was the first and
only favor Fanny Foster had ever asked of Green Valley. And Green
Valley, as it watched Ruth lead her away, swore that if possible John
should not hear.

But John did hear three days later. And then the quiet man whose
patience had made people think him a fool let loose the stored-up
bitterness of years. He who in the beginning should and could have
saved his girl wife with love and firmness now judged and rejected her
with the terrible wrath, the cold merciless justice of a man slow to
anger or to judge.

It was springtime and Grandma, sitting in her kitchen, heard and wept
for Fanny. The windows at the Foster house were open and John talked
for all the world to hear. His name had been dragged through the
gutter and he was past caring for appearances. Grandma writhed under
the words that were more cruel than a lash. At the end John Foster
swore that so long as he lived he would never speak to Fanny. And
Grandma shivered, for she knew John Foster.

For days not even Grandma saw Fanny. Then she saw her washing windows,
scrubbing the porch steps, hanging up clothes. There came from the
Foster house the whir of a sewing machine, the fragrant smell of fresh
bread. The children came out with faces shining as the morning, hair
as smooth as silk, shoes polished. And Grandma knew that if John
Foster found a speck of dirt in his house he would have to look for it
with a microscope. But there was a kind of horror in the eyes of
Fanny's children. They didn't play any more or run away but of their
own accord stayed home to fetch and carry for the strange mother who
was now always there, who never sang, never spoke harshly to them, who
worked bitterly from morning till night.

Every spring Fanny Foster used to flit through Green Valley streets
like a chattering blue-jay. But now nobody saw her, only now and then
at night, slinking along through the dark. And many a kindly heart
ached for her, remembering how Fanny loved the sunshine and laughter.

But at last the spring grew too wonderful to resist. Even Fanny's numb
heart and flayed spirit was warmed with the golden heat. She had some
money that she wanted to deposit in the bank for John. For Fanny was
saving now as only Fanny knew how when she set her mind to it. And she
had set not only her mind but her very soul on making good. Every
cruel taunt had left a ghastly wound and only work of the