of the house where she could look at her
little sea of tulips and hyacinths and drink in their perfume.

She had been trying to crochet but had dropped her needle. It lay in
the grass at her feet. She could see it but she could not pick it up.
She had not as yet acquired the skill and the inventive faculty of an
invalid.

And so she sat there, staring at the bit of glistening steel as wave
after wave of bitterness swept over her. Her tragedy was still so new
that she could feel it with every breath. Every hour she was reminded
of her loss by a thousand little things like this crochet hook. She
was forced to sit still, her busy hands idle in her lap, while spring
was calling, calling everywhere. She told herself, with a mad little
laugh, that she would never again pick up anything; never again would
she run through her neighbors' gates, tap on their doors and visit them
in their kitchens. Never again could she hurry up the spring street
with the south wind caressing her cheek. No more would she gad about
to learn the doings of her little world. Would it come to talk to her,
to make her laugh now that she was helpless? Was she never to hear the
music of living? Was she to lose her knack of making people laugh? To
lose her place in life--to live and yet be forgotten--would she have to
face that?

These were some of the thoughts that were torturing poor Fanny that
day. And then she gave a cry, for around the corner of the house came
Nanny Ainslee in just the same old way. Grandma Wentworth and the
minister were just behind her.

They stared lovingly at each other, the girl who was as lovely as life
and love and springtime could make her, and the woman whom the game had
broken. Then Nanny spoke--not to the broken body of Fanny Foster but
to the gipsy, springtime spirit of Fanny.

"I only just came home, Fanny. I went through town and saw pretty
nearly everybody, and every soul tried to tell me a little something.
But it's all a jumble. So, Fanny Foster, I want you to begin with
Christmas Day and tell me all that's happened in Green Valley while
I've been away."

Never a word of her accident, never so much as a glance of pity at the
wonderful chair. Just the old Nan Ainslee asking the old Fanny Foster
for Green Valley news.

In the scarred soul of Fanny Foster, down under the bitterness and
crumbled pride, something stirred, something that Fanny thought was
dead forever.

Then Nanny spoke again.