dogs bark and a baby frets loudly somewhere. In somebody's chicken coop
a frightened, dozing hen gargles its throat and then goes to sleep again.
The frogs along Silver Creek and in Wimple's pond are going full blast,
and in her fragrant herb garden stands Grandma Wentworth. She is looking
at the gold-smudged western sky and watching the sweet, spring night sift
softly down on Green Valley.

She stands there a long time sensing the great tide of new life that is
flushing the world into a new, tingling beauty. She sees the lacy
loveliness of the birches, the budding green glory of her garden. Then
she smiles as she tells herself:

"It won't be long now till the lilacs bloom again. Nanny will be here
soon now. And who knows! Cynthia's boy may come back to live in his
mother's old home."




CHAPTER III

THE LAST OF THE CHURCHILLS

Even in beautiful Los Angeles days can be rainy and full of gnawing
cold and gloom.

On such a day Joshua Churchill lay dying. He could have died days
before had he cared to let himself do so. But he was holding on grimly
to the life he no longer valued and held off as grimly the death he
really craved. He was waiting for the coming of the boy who was so