He's a master hand at that sort of work
and there are any number of boys in this town who will love it and look
up to Hen," said the man who did not understand women. The sun was
slipping low in the west, pouring a flood of mellow gold over the
landscape. It caught the attic windows of the old brick farmhouse that
was so nearly ready for its new and young owner.
"Look," exclaimed Nan, pointing down toward it, "there is fairy
treasure in your attic."
"Yes," he smiled, "there is. There are trunks up there full of all
manner of things that five generations of Churchills could not bear to
burn or give away. Some day when the rain is drumming on the roof and
the gutters are spouting and all the birds are tucked away in dripping
trees and the world is misty with tears, I'm going up there and just
revel in second-hand adventure, dead dreams and cobwebs."
"Oh, my gracious, how I'd like to be there too," enviously cried Nanny
Ainslee and the next moment crimsoned angrily at herself.
"If you won't mind coming to my house in the rain," said the man who
did not understand women--but Nanny wasn't listening. The setting sun
flared into a last widespread glory that bathed every grass blade in
Green Valley and in this strong and golden light Nan saw the 6:10
pulling in and Fanny Foster hurrying home.
Pages:
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183