But Cynthia's son did not weep. He had shed his tears long ago and had
learned to smile. He was smiling at them now.
"I had planned to have Jim Tumley sing some of the old songs for us
to-night. But Jim isn't here and so if somebody will offer to play
them we can all sing. Jim promised he'd come," the young host's face
was troubled and they all guessed what was worrying him, "but he isn't
here--"
"Yes--he--is," a strange voice chirped somewhere near the door. Green
Valley turned and looked and froze with horror. For there, staggering
grotesquely, came little Jim Tumley, a piteous figure. He had kept his
promise to his new friend--he had come to sing the old songs.
Not a soul stirred. Only somewhere in the heart of the seated audience
Frank Burton groaned. This was a fight that he could not fight for
little Jim.
Nan Ainslee had stepped to the piano but her fingers were lead. And
for once the young minister was unable to rise to the situation. A
dark agony flooded his eyes and kept him motionless. It was the look
Grandma Wentworth had once seen in Cynthia's eyes. And it was that
look that took the strength from Grandma so that she too was helpless.
For sick, still minutes Green Valley watched little Jim stumble about
and fumble for his handkerchief.
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