At the very end of the Churchill estate, as if thrown in for good
measure, was a little knoll, smooth and grassy and crowned with a
little grove of God's own planting.


For there were gathered together big gnarled oaks, maples, old hickory
trees and many poplars. There were on that knoll three snowy, bridal
birches, the rough trunks of horse-chestnuts and a few solemn pines.
As if that were not enough, in the very heart of this woody temple were
two shaggy old crab-apple trees and one stray wild plum.

In the spring here was fairyland. And into it Cynthia's son retired at
every fair opportunity. Here he sat and looked off at the dimpling,
rippling farmlands, the wandering old roads and at Green Valley roofs
nestling so securely in their setting of rich greens and dappled
sunshine.

From his seat beneath an oak he could see Wimple's pond with its circle
of trees and through the far willow hedges caught the glittering sheen
and sparkle of Silver Creek. And there before and below him lay the
mellow old farm that his grandfather had left him.

The warm brick walls with their wide brick chimneys already had a
welcoming look. For the tenant was gone and the old home was being
repaired for its owner. But from the knoll no sound of hammer or sight
of workmen marred the soft silence and sunny peace of the day. So
Green Valley's young minister sprawled comfortably down, closed his
eyes and let the earth music wrap him round.