Get out of
here, children. You know your father wants to see you all at home when
he gets there."
There was a scramble for the door and Grandma Wentworth's heart ached
for John Foster, the big, silent, steady man who brushes his girls'
hair every Sunday morning and brings them fresh hair ribbons and who
somehow manages to get them to Sunday School looking half respectable.
John never says a word scarcely to any one, from one week's end to the
other. He never spends a free hour away from home, he never invites a
man to his house, and he seldom smiles except at the children or when
visiting with Grandma Wentworth or Roger Allan, his two friends and
nearest neighbors. Sometimes he goes for long walks with his girls and
little Bobby. Most people think him a fool and he knows it.
Grandma Wentworth sighed a little as she thought of John Foster. Then
she put fresh wood on her fire and poked at the stove grate till it
glowed. She smiled as she remembered Fanny's report.
"Well, spring is here for certain. Now we'll have a wedding and some
new babies. They always come next."
Then sitting there beside her glowing stove Grandma fell to dreaming of
Green Valley and the Green Valley folks of other days, Green Valley as
it used to be in the springs of long ago.
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