the Harpeth Valley, just as soon as the sun sinks low enough to throw
the red glow over the head of Old Harpeth. I suppose it happens in other
hill-rimmed valleys in other parts of the Universe, but it does seem as
if God himself is looking down to brood over us, and that the valley is
the hollow of His hand into which he is gathering us to rest in the
darkness of His night. I felt buffeted and in need of Him as I sank down
under the rose-vine over the porch and looked out across my garden to
the blue and rose hills beyond.

I have been in Glendale a whole month now, and I can't see that my
influence has revolutionized the town as yet. I don't seem to be of half
the importance that I thought I was going to be. I have tried, and I
have offered that bucket of love that I thought up to everybody, but
whether they have drunk of it to profit I am sure I can't say. In fact,
my loneliness has liquefied my gaseous affection into what almost looks
like officiousness.

Still, I know Uncle Peter is happier than he ever was before, because he
has got me to come to as a refuge from Aunt Augusta, a confidante for
his views of life that he is not allowed to express at home, and also
the certainty of one of Jasper's juleps.

Sallie has grown so dependent on me that my shoulders are assuming a
masculine squareness to support her weight. I am understudying Cousin
James to such an extent over at Widegables that I feel like the heir to
his house. Cousin Martha sends for me when the chimney smokes and the
cows get sick. I have twice changed five dollars for little Cousin
Jasmine, and sternly told the man from out on their farm on Providence
Road that he must not root up the lavender bushes to plant turnip-greens
in their places. I afterwards rented the patch from him to grow the