They hurry along in twos and threes, waving newspaper and hand greetings
to the home folks and the store proprietors who stand in their doorways
to watch them go by.
There is a fragrant smell of supper in the air and a slight feel of
coming rain. Here and there a mother calls a belated child. Doors slam,
dogs bark and a baby frets loudly somewhere. In somebody's chicken coop
a frightened, dozing hen gargles its throat and then goes to sleep again.
The frogs along Silver Creek and in Wimple's pond are going full blast,
and in her fragrant herb garden stands Grandma Wentworth. She is looking
at the gold-smudged western sky and watching the sweet, spring night sift
softly down on Green Valley.
She stands there a long time sensing the great tide of new life that is
flushing the world into a new, tingling beauty. She sees the lacy
loveliness of the birches, the budding green glory of her garden. Then
she smiles as she tells herself:
"It won't be long now till the lilacs bloom again. Nanny will be here
soon now. And who knows! Cynthia's boy may come back to live in his
mother's old home."
CHAPTER III
THE LAST OF THE CHURCHILLS
Even in beautiful Los Angeles days can be rainy and full of gnawing
cold and gloom.
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