her mind about him and Bob chokes and swells up my heart gets warm. Do
you suppose it's wrong to let a friend's trouble heat sympathy to the
boiling point? But if you don't need me I'm going down to the
milk-house to work out my last batch of butter before they come to
drive away my cows." And Rose Mary hurried down the lilac path before
Uncle Tucker could catch a glimpse of the tears that rose at the idea
of having to give up the beloved Mrs. Butter and her tribe of
gentle-eyed daughters.

And as she stood in the cool gray depths of the old milk-house Rose
Mary's gentle heart throbbed with pain as she pressed the great cakes
of the golden treasure back and forth in the blue bowl, for it was a
quiet time and Rose Mary was tearing up some of her own roots. Her sad
eyes looked out over Harpeth Valley, which lay in a swoon with the
midsummer heat. The lush blue-grass rose almost knee deep around the
grazing cattle in the meadows, and in the fields the green grain was
fast turning to a harvest hue. Almost as far as her eyes could reach
along Providence Road and across the pastures to Providence Nob,
beyond Tilting Rock, the land was Alloway land and had been theirs for
what seemed always. She could remember what each good-by to it all had
been when she had gone out over the Ridge in her merry girlhood and
how overflowing with joy each return. Then had come the time when it
had become still dearer as a refuge into which she could bring her
torn heart for its healing.

And such a healing the Valley had given her! It had poured the
fragrance of its blooming springs and summers over her head, she had
drunk the wine of forgetfulness in the cup of long Octobers and the
sting of its wind and rain and snow on her cheeks had brought back the
grief-faded roses. The arms of the hearty Harpeth women had been