the world outside was as young, as bright, as promising as ever.
Something of this must have come to these two for Mrs. Sears' sobs
quieted and out in the front room Sears sank into a chair and grew
still.

And then it was that Fanny Poster, who had been flitting about like a
very spirit of help and curiosity, flitted down the road to Grandma
Wentworth's. For Fanny felt that somebody had to do something and
Fanny knew that nobody could do it so efficiently as the strong, sweet,
gray-eyed Grandma Wentworth who, for all her sweetness, could yet
rebuke most sternly and fearlessly even while she helped and advised
wisely.

Green Valley had its generous share of philosophers and helpful spirits
but Grandma Wentworth towered above them all. And every soul in the
village, when in trouble, turned to her as naturally as flowers turn
their faces to the sun.

Her little vine-clad cottage sat just beyond the curve where the three
roads met at Old Roads Corners. Her back garden was full of the
choicest vegetables and sweetest-smelling herbs and there was a
heavenly array of flowers all about the front windows. The neighbors
said that Grandma Wentworth's house and garden looked just like her and
ministers usually sent their spiritually hopeless cases to her because
she dared and knew how to say the soul-necessary things that no
bread-and-butter-cautious minister can find the courage to say.

The path to Grandma's house was worn smooth by the feet of the many who
came for advice, encouragement and for sheer love of the woman who
lived in that little garden.