Rainbow Valley, Part 8 of 15

Well, you must be enjoying this book since you've made it this far, and that makes me so happy. You deserve to sleep well every night, so be sure to check out the Sleepy Bookshelf Premium Feed, where you'll find exclusive bonus episodes. That way, you'll never run out of stories to put you to sleep. Hello, it's Elizabeth, and I'm excited to share with you the newest show from Slumber Studios. It's called Sleepy History, and it's exactly what it sounds like. Intriguing stories, people, mysteries and events from history, delivered in a supremely calming atmosphere. explore the legend of El Dorado see what life was like for the Roman gladiators uncover the myths and mysteries of Stonehenge you'll find interesting but relaxing episodes like these on sleepy history and the same great production quality you've come to know and love from the sleepy bookshelf so check it out and perhaps you'll have another way to get a good night's rest. Just search Sleepy History in your preferred podcast player. Good evening and welcome to the Sleepy Bookshelf where we put down our worries from the day and pick up a good book. I'm your host, Elizabeth. Thank you so much for being here tonight. This evening we are returning to Rainbow Valley. But first, let's take some time for ourselves. Lying on your back, if you can, rest your arms comfortably by your side. Close your eyes and feel the contact you have with whatever is beneath you. Breathe in and out. Spread your awareness throughout your body. How does it feel physically? How do the sheets or blankets maybe feel on top of you? The weight of them? The temperature of the air around you? The sounds you can hear? Taking time to notice the different sensations is a great way to bring yourself into the present. So keep breathing in and out, slowly bringing your awareness to my voice, as I recap on the last episode. John Meredith was sitting by a secret little spring, hidden by ferns, on the old maple seat, thinking about his youth and his lost love, Cecilia. Walter Blythe had shown him this spot, and the two had become quite kindred spirits of late. It was then that his vigil was disturbed by the presence of Rosemary West. She often came to the spring, as it was the very spot where her beau, Martin Crawford, had declared his love for her, before he boarded his ship for a fatal voyage at sea. While they had met before, the minister wouldn't have been able to tell you what rosemary looks like. But here, in the moonlight, he doubted he would ever forget. She pretended she had come for a drink of water, and he made her a cup from a birch leaf, sipping afterwards from the same cup. He then offered to escort her home and carry her books. On arrival, he met her sister Ellen, ten years her senior, who challenged him on his opinion of the German Kaiser, before he eventually took his leave. Tonight we pick up with John Meredith walking home from the Wests. So just lie back and relax as I turn to the next pages. of Rainbow Valley. Chapter 14. Mrs. Alec Davis makes a call. John Merida walked slowly home. At first, he thought a little about Rosemary, but by the time he reached Rainbow Valley, he had forgotten all about her and was meditating on a point regarding German theology which Ellen had raised. He passed through Rainbow Valley and knew it not. The charm of Rainbow Valley had no potency against German theology. When he reached the manse, he went to his study and took down a bulky volume in order to see which had been right, he or Ellen. He remained immersed in its mazes until dawn, struck a new trail of speculation, and pursued it like a sleuth hound for the next week, utterly lost to the world, his parish, and his family. He read day and night. He forgot to go to his meals when Una was not there to drag him to them. He never thought about Rosemary or Ellen again. Old Mrs. Marshall over harbour was very ill and sent for him, but the message lay unheeded on his desk and gathered dust. Mrs. Marshall recovered, but never forgave him. A young couple came to the manse to be married, and Mr. Meredith, with unbrushed hair, in carpet slippers, and faded dressing gown, married them. To be sure, he began by reading the funeral service to them and got along as far as ashes to ashes and dust to dust before he vaguely suspected that something was wrong. Oh, dear me, he said absently. That is strange, very strange. The bride, who was very nervous, began to cry. The bridegroom, who was not in the least nervous, giggled. Please, sir, I think you're burying us instead of marrying us, he said. Excuse me, said Mr. Meredith, as it did not matter much. He turned up the marriage service and got through with it, but the bride never quite felt properly married for the rest of her life. He forgot his prayer meeting again, but that did not matter, for it was a wet night and nobody came. He might even have forgotten his Sunday service if it had not been for Mrs. Alec Davis. Aunt Martha came in on Saturday afternoon and told him that Mrs. Davis was in the parlour and wanted to see him. Mr. Meredith sighed. Mrs. Davis was the only woman in Glen St. Mary Church whom he positively detested. Unfortunately, she was also the richest, and his board of managers had warned Mr. Meredith against offending her. Mr. Meredith seldom thought of such a worldly matter as his stipend, but the managers were more practical. Also, they were astute. Without mentioning money, they contrived to instill into Mr. Meredith's mind a conviction that he should not offend Mrs. Davis. Otherwise, he would likely have forgotten all about her as soon as Aunt Martha had gone out. As it was, he turned down his Ewald with a feeling of annoyance and went across the hall to the parlour. Mrs. Davis was sitting on the sofa, looking about her with an air of scornful disapproval. What a scandalous room! There were no curtains on the window. Mrs. Davis did not know that Faith and Una had taken them down the day before to use as court trains in one of their plays and had forgotten to put them up again. But she could not have accused those windows more fiercely if she had known. The blinds were cracked and torn. The pictures on the walls were crooked. The rugs were awry. The vases were full of faded flowers. The dust lay in heaps, literally in heaps. What are we coming to? Mrs. Davis asked herself, and then primmed up her unbeautiful mouth. Jerry and Carl had been whooping and sliding down the banisters as she came through the hall. They did not see her, and continued whooping and sliding, and Mrs. Davis was convinced they did it on purpose. Faith's pet rooster ambled through the hall, stood in the parlour doorway, and looked at her. Not liking her looks, he did not venture in. Mrs. Davis gave a scornful sniff. A pretty manse indeed where roosters paraded the halls and stared people out of countenance. Shoo there, commanded Mrs. Davis, poking her flounced, changeable silk parasol at him. Adam shooed. He was a wise rooster, and Mrs. Davis had wrung the necks of so many roosters with her own fair hands in the course of her fifty years that an heir of the executioner seemed to hang around her. Adam scuttled through the hall as the minister came in. Mr. Meredith still wore slippers and dressing gown, and his dark hair still fell in uncared-for locks over his high brow. But he looked the gentleman he was, and Mrs. Alec Davis, in her silk dress and beplumed bonnet and kid gloves and gold chain looked the vulgar, coarse-souled woman she was. Each felt the antagonism of the other's personality. Mr. Meredith shrank, but Mrs. Davis girded up her loins for the fray. She had come to the manse to propose a certain thing to the minister, and she meant to lose no time in proposing it. She was going to do him a favor, a great favor, and the sooner he was made aware of it, the better. She had been thinking about it all summer, and had come to a decision at last. This was all that mattered, Mrs. Davis thought. When she decided a thing, it was decided. Nobody else had any say in the matter. That had always been her attitude. When she had made up her mind to marry Alec Davis, she had married him, and that was the end to it. Alec had never known how it happened, but what odds? So in this case Mrs Davis had arranged everything to her own satisfaction Now it only remained to inform Mr Meredith Will you please shut that door? said Mrs. Davis, unprimming her mouth slightly to say it, but speaking with asperity. I have something important to say and I can't say it with that racket in the hall. Mr. Meredith shut the door meekly. Then he sat down before Mrs. Davis. He was not wholly aware of her yet. His mind was still wrestling with Ewald's arguments. Mrs. Davis sensed this detachment, and it annoyed her. I have come to tell you, Mr. Meredith, she said aggressively, that I have decided to adopt Una. To adopt? Una? Mr. Meredith gazed at her blankly, not understanding in the least. Yes, I've been thinking it over for some time. I have often thought of adopting a child since my husband's death, but it seemed so hard to get a suitable one. It is very few children I would want to take into my home. I wouldn't think of taking a home child, some outcast of the slums in all probability. And there is hardly ever any other child to be got. One of the fishermen down at the harbour died last fall and left six youngsters. They tried to get me to take one, but I soon gave them to understand that I had no idea of adopting trash like that. Their grandfather stole a horse Besides, they were all boys And I wanted a girl A quiet, obedient girl That I could train up to be a lady Una will suit me exactly She would be a nice little thing if she was properly looked after So different from Faith I would never dream of adopting Faith But I'll take Una and I'll give her a good home and upbringing, Mr. Meredith, and if she behaves herself, I'll leave her all my money when I die. Not one of my own relatives shall have a cent of it in any case. I'm determined on that. It was the idea of aggravating them that set me to thinking of adopting a child as much as anything in the first place. Una shall be well-dressed and educated and trained Mr. Meredith, and I shall give her music and painting lessons and treat her as if she was my own. Mr. Meredith was wide enough awake by this time. There was a faint flush in his pale cheek and a dangerous light in his fine, dark eyes. Was this woman, whose vulgarity and consciousness of money oozed out of her every pore, actually asking him to give her Una, his dear little wistful Una, with Cecilia's own dark blue eyes, the child whom the dying mother had clasped to her heart after the other children had been led weeping from the room. Cecilia had clung to her baby until the gates of death had shut between them. She had looked over the little dark head to her husband. Take good care of her, John, she had entreated. She is so small and sensitive. The others can find their way, but the world will hurt her. Oh, John, I don't know what you and she are going to do. You both need me so much, but keep her close to you. Keep her close to you. These had been almost her last words, except a few unforgettable ones for him alone. And it was this child whom Mrs. Davis had coolly announced her intention of taking from him. He sat up straight and looked at Mrs. Davis. In spite of the worn dressing gown and the frayed slippers, there was something about him that made Mrs. Davis feel a little of the old reverence for the cloth in which she had been brought up. After all, there was a certain divinity hedging a minister, even a poor, unworldly, abstracted one. I thank you for your kind intentions, Mrs. Davis, said Mr. Merida with a gentle, final, quite awful courtesy. But I cannot give you my child. Mrs. Davis looked blank. She had never dreamt of his refusing. Why, Mr. Meredith, she said in astonishment. You must be... You can't mean it. You must think it over. Think of all the advantages I can give her. There is no need to think it over, Mrs. Davis. It is entirely out of the question. All the worldly advantages it is in your power to bestow on her could not compensate for the loss of a father's love and care. I thank you again, but it is not to be thought of. Disappointment angered Mrs. Davis beyond the power of old habits to control. Her broad red face turned purple, and her voice trembled. I thought you'd be only too glad to let me have her, she sneered. Why did you think that? asked Mr. Meredith quietly. Because nobody ever supposed you cared anything about any of your children, retorted Mrs. Davis contemptuously. You neglect them, scandalously. It is the talk of the place. They aren't fed and dressed properly. and they are not trained at all. They have no more manners than a pack of wild dogs. You never think of doing your duty as a father. You let a stray child come here among them for a fortnight and never took any notice of her. A child that swore like a trooper, I'm told. You wouldn't have cared if they caught smallpox from her. And Faith made an exhibition of herself getting up in preaching and making that speech. And she rid a pig down the street, under your very eyes, I understand. The way they act is past belief and you never lift a finger to stop them or try to teach them anything. And now, when I offer one of them a good home and good prospects, you refuse it and insult me. A pretty father, you, to talk of loving and caring for your children. That will do, woman, said Mr. Meredith. He stood up and looked at Mrs. Davis with eyes that made her quail. That will do, he repeated. I desire to hear no more, Mrs. Davis, you have said too much. It may be that I have been remiss in some respects in my duty as a parent, but it is not for you to remind me of it in such terms as you have used. Let us say good afternoon. Mrs. Davis did not say anything half so amiable as good afternoon, but she took her departure. As she swept past the minister, a large, plump toad, which Carl had secreted under the lounge, popped out almost under her feet. Mrs. Davis gave a shriek, and in trying to avoid treading on the awful thing, lost her balance and her parason. She did not exactly fall, but she staggered and reeled across the room in a very undignified fashion, and brought up against the door with a thud that jarred her from head to foot. Mr. Meredith, who had not seen the toad, wondered if she had been attacked with some kind of apoplectic or paralytic seizure, and ran in alarm to her assistance. But Mrs. Davis, recovering her feet, waved him back furiously. Don't you dare touch me, she almost shouted. This is some more of your children's doings, I suppose. This is no fit place for a decent woman. Give me my umbrella and let me go. I'll never darken the doors of your manse or your church ever again. Mr. Meredith picked up the gorgeous parasol meekly enough and gave it to her. Mrs. Davis seized it and marched out. Jerry and Carl had given up banister sliding and were sitting on the edge of the veranda with faith. Unfortunately, all three were singing at the tops of their healthy young voices. There'll be a hot time in the old town tonight. Mrs. Davis believed the song was meant for her and her only. She stopped and shook her parasol at them. Your father is a fool, she said, and you are three young varmints that ought to be whipped within an inch of your lives. He isn't, cried Faye. We're not, cried the boys. But Mrs. Davis was gone. Goodness, isn't she mad, said Jerry. What is a varmint anyhow? John Meredith paced up and down the parlor for a few minutes. Then he went back to his study and sat down. But he did not return to his German theology. He was too grievously disturbed for that. Mrs. Davis had wakened him up with a vengeance. Was he such a remiss, careless father as she had accused him of being? had he so scandalously neglected the bodily and spiritual welfare of the four little motherless creatures dependent on him? Were his people talking of it as harshly as Mrs. Davis had declared? It must be so, since Mrs. Davis had come to ask for Una in the full and confident belief that he would hand the child over to her as unconcernedly and gladly as one might hand over a strayed, unwelcome kitten. And if so, what then? John Meredith groaned and resumed his pacing up and down the dusty, disordered room. What could he do? He loved his children as deeply as any father could, and he knew, past the power of Mrs. Davis, or any of her ilk, to disturb his conviction that they loved him devotedly. But was he fit to have charge of them? He knew none better his weaknesses and limitations. What was needed was a good woman's presence and influence and common sense. But how could that be arranged? Even were he able to get such a housekeeper, it would cut Aunt Martha to the quick. She believed she could still do all that was meat and necessary. He could not so hurt and insult the poor old woman who had been so kind to him and his. how devoted she had been to Cecilia, and Cecilia had asked him to be very considerate of Aunt Martha. To be sure, he suddenly remembered that Aunt Martha had once hinted that he ought to marry again. He felt she would not resent a wife as she would a housekeeper. But that was out of the question. He did not wish to marry. He did not and could not care for anyone. Then what could he do? It suddenly occurred to him that he would go over to Ingleside and talk over his difficulties with Mrs. Blythe. Mrs. Blythe was one of the few women he never felt shy or tongue-tied with. She was always so sympathetic and refreshing It might be that she could suggest some solution of his problems And even if she could not Mr Meredith felt that he needed a little decent human companionship after his dose of Mrs. Davis. Something to take the taste of her out of his soul. He dressed hurriedly and ate his supper less abstractedly than usual. It occurred to him that it was a poor meal. He looked at his children. They were rosy and healthy-looking enough, except Una, and she had never been very strong, even when her mother was alive. They were all laughing and talking. Certainly they seemed happy. Carl was especially happy because he had two most beautiful spiders crawling around his supper plate. Their voices were pleasant. Their manners did not seem bad. They were considerate of and gentle to one another. Yet Mrs. Davis had said their behavior was the talk of the congregation. As Mr. Meredith went through his gate, Dr. Blythe and Mrs. Blythe drove past on the road that led to Lowbridge. The minister's face fell. Mrs. Blythe was going away. There was no use in going to Ingleside. And he craved a little companionship more than ever. As he gazed rather hopelessly over the landscape, a sunset light struck on a window of the old West homestead on the hill. It flared out rosily like a beacon of good hope. He suddenly remembered Rosemary and Ellen West. He thought that he would relish some of Ellen's pungent conversation. He thought it would be pleasant to see Rosemary's slow, sweet smile and calm, heavenly blue eyes. What did that old poem of Sir Philip Sidney say? Continual comfort in a face? That just suited her. And he needed comfort. Why not go and call? He remembered that Ellen had asked him to drop in sometimes. And there was Rosemary's book to take back. He ought to take it back before he forgot. He had an uneasy suspicion that there were a great many books in his library which he had borrowed at sundry times and in diverse places and had forgotten to take back. It was surely his duty to guard against that in this case. He went back into his study, got the book, and plunged downward into Rainbow Valley. Chapter 15 More Gossip On the evening after Mrs. Myra Murray of the Overharbour section had been buried, Miss Cornelia and Mary Vance came up to Ingleside. There were several things concerning which Miss Cornelia wished to unburden her soul. The funeral had to be all talked over, of course. Susan and Miss Cornelia thrashed this out between them. Anne took no part or delight in such ghoulish conversations. She sat a little apart and watched the autumnal flame of dahlias in the garden and the dreaming, glamorous harbour of the September sunset. Mary Vance sat beside her, knitting meekly. Mary's heart was down in the Rainbow Valley, whence came sweet, distant, softened sounds of children's laughter. But her fingers were under Miss Cornelia's eye. She had to knit so many rounds of her stocking before she might go into the valley. Mary knit and held her tongue, but used her ears. I never saw a nicer looking corpse, said Miss Cornelia judicially. Myra Murray was always a pretty woman. She was a quarry from Lowbridge and the quarries were noted for their good looks. I said to the corpse as it passed, poor woman, I hope you are as happy as you look, sighed Susan. She had not changed much. That dress she wore was the black set and she got for her daughter's wedding 14 years ago. Her aunt told her then to keep it for her funeral, but Myra laughed and said, I may wear it to my funeral auntie and I will have a good time out of it first. And I may say she did. Myra Murray was not a woman to attend her own funeral before she died. Many a time afterwards when I saw her enjoying herself out in company, I thought to myself, you are a handsome woman, Myra Murray, and that dress becomes you, but it will likely be your shroud at last. And you see my words have come true, Mrs Marshall Elliott. Susan sighed again heavily. She was enjoying herself hugely. A funeral was really a delightful subject of conversation. I always liked to meet Myra, said Miss Cornelia. She was always so gay and cheerful. She made you feel better just by her handshake. Myra always made the best of things. That is true, asserted Susan. Her sister-in-law told me that when the doctor told her at last he could do nothing for her and she would never rise from that bed again, Myra said quite cheerfully, well if that is so, I'm thankful the preserving is all done and I will not have to face the fall house cleaning. I always liked house cleaning in spring, she says, but I always hated it in the fall. I will get clear of it this year, thank goodness. There are people who would call that levity, Mrs Marshall Elliot, and I think her sister-in-law was a little ashamed of it. She said perhaps her sickness had made Myra a little light-headed, but I said no, Mrs Murray, do not worry over it. It was just Myra's way of looking at the bright side. her sister Luella was just the opposite said Miss Cornelia there was no bright side for Luella there was just black and shades of gray for years she used always to be declaring she was going to die in a week or so I won't be here to burden you long she would tell her family with a groan and if any of them ventured to talk about their little future plans she'd groan also and say oh, I won't be here for them. When I went to see her, I always agreed with her and it made her so mad. She was always quite a lot better for several days afterwards. She has better health now, but no more cheerfulness. Myra was so different. She was always doing or saying something to make someone feel good. Perhaps the men they married had something to do with it. Luella's man was a harder, believe me, while Jim Murray was decent as men go. He looked heartbroken today. It isn't often I feel sorry for a man at his wife's funeral, but I did feel for Jim Murray. No wonder he looked sad. He will not get a wife like Myra again in a hurry, said Susan. Maybe he will not try, since his children are all grown up and Mirabelle is able to keep the house. But there is no predicting what a widower may or may not do, and I, for one, will not try. We'll miss Myra terrible in church, said Miss Cornelia. She was such a worker. Nothing ever stumped her. If she couldn't get over a difficulty, she'd get around it, and if she couldn't get around it, she'd pretend it wasn't there, and generally, it wasn't. I'll keep a stiff upper lip to my journey's end, she said to me once. well she has ended her journey do you think so asked anne suddenly coming back from dreamland i can't picture her journey as being ended can you think of her as sitting down and folding her hands that eager asking spirit of hers with its fine adventurous outlook No, I think in death she just opened a gate and went through. On. On to new, shining adventures. Maybe. Maybe, assented Miss Cornelia. Do you know, Anne, dearie, I never was much taken with this everlasting rest doctor in myself, though I hope it isn't heresy to say so. I want to bustle round in heaven the same as here. And I hope there'll be a celestial substitute for pies and donuts. Something that has to be made. Of course, one does get awful tired at times. And the older you are, the tireder you get. But the very tiredest could get rested in something short of eternity, you'd think. Except perhaps a lazy man. When I meet Myra Munnery again, said Anne, I want to see her coming towards me, brisk and laughing, just as she always did here. Oh, Mrs. Doctor dear, said Susan in a shocked tone. You surely do not think that Myra will be laughing in the world to come? Why not, Susan? Do you think we will be crying there? Oh no, Mrs. Doctor dear, do not misunderstand me. I do not think we shall be either crying or laughing. What then? Well, said Susan, driven to it It is my opinion, Mrs Doctor dear, that we should just look solemn and holy And do you really think, Susan, said Anne, looking solemn enough that either Myra Murray or I could look solemn and holy all the time All the time, Susan Well, admitted Susan reluctantly I might go so far as to say that you both would have a smile now and then, but I can never admit that there will be laughing in heaven. The idea seems really irreverent, Mrs. Dr. Dear. Well, to come back to Earth, said Miss Cornelia, who can we get to take Myra's class in Sunday school? Julia Clow has been teaching it ever since Myra took ill, but she's going to town for the winter, and we'll have to get somebody else. I heard that Mrs. Laurie Jamieson wanted it, said Anne. The Jamiesons have come to church very regularly since they moved to the Glen from Lowbridge. Oh, new brooms, said Miss Cornelia dubiously. Wait till they've gone regularly for a year. You cannot depend on Mrs. Jamieson a bit, Mrs. Dr. Dear, said Susan solemnly. She died once, and when they were measuring her for her coffin, after laying her out just beautiful, she did not go and come back to life. Now, Mrs. Dr. dear, you know you cannot depend on a woman like that. She might turn Methodist at any moment, said Miss Cornelia. They tell me that they went to the Methodist church at Lowbridge quite as often as to the Presbyterian. I haven't caught them at it here yet, but I would not approve of taking Mrs. Jameson into the Sunday school. Yet, we must not offend them. We are losing too many people by death or bad temper. Mrs. Alec Davis has left the church. No one knows why. She told the managers that she would never pay another cent to Mr. Meredith's salary. Of course, most people say that the children offended her, but somehow I don't think so. I tried to pump Faith, but all I could get out of her was that Mrs. Davis had come, seemingly in high good humour to see her father, and had left in an awful rage, calling them all varmints. Varmints indeed, said Susan furiously. Does Mrs. Alec Davis forget that her uncle on her mother's side was suspected of poisoning his wife? Not that it was ever proved, Mrs. Dr. dear, and it does not do to believe all you here, but if I had an uncle whose wife died without any satisfactory reason, I would not go about the country calling innocent children barmints.' "'The point is,' said Miss Cornelia, Mrs Davis paid a large subscription and how its loss is going to be made up is a problem and if she turns the other Douglases against Mr Meredith as she will certainly try to do he will just have to go I do not think Mrs. Alec Davis is very well-liked by the rest of the clan, said Susan. It is not likely she will be able to influence them. But those Douglases all hang together, so if you touch one, you touch them all. We can't do without them, so much is certain. They pay half the salary. They are not mean, whatever else may be said of them. Norman Douglas used to give a hundred a year long ago before he left. What did he leave for? asked Anne. He declared a member of the session cheated him in a cow deal. He hasn't come to church for twenty years. His wife used to come regular while she was alive, poor thing. but he never would let her pay anything except one red cent every Sunday. She felt dreadfully humiliated. I don't know that he was any good a husband to her, though she was never heard to complain, but she always had a cowed look. Norman Douglas didn't get the woman he wanted 30 years ago and the Douglases never liked to put up with second best. Who was the woman he did want? Ellen West. They weren't engaged exactly, I believe, but they went about together for two years, then they just broke off. Nobody ever knew why. Just some silly quarrel, I suppose. And Norman went and married Hester Reese before his temper had time to cool. Married her just to spite Ellen, I haven't a doubt. So like a man. Hester was a nice little thing, but she never had much spirit, and he broke what little she had. She was too meek for Norman. He needed a woman who could stand up to him. Ellen would have kept him in fine order and he would have liked her all the better for it. He despised Hester, that is the truth, just because she always gave in to him. I used to hear him say many a time long ago when he was a young fellow, give me a spunky woman, spunk for me every time. And then he went and married a girl who couldn't say boo to a goose, man-like. That family of the Reeses were just vegetables. They went through the motions of living, but they didn't live. Russell Rees used his first wife's wedding ring to marry his second, said Susan reminiscently. That was too economical in my opinion, Mrs. Dr. Dear. And his brother, John, had his own tombstone put up in the Overarbor graveyard with everything on it but the date of death, and he goes and looks at it every Sunday. Most folks would not consider that much fun, but it's plain he does. People do have such different ideas of enjoyment. As for Mr Norman Douglas, he is a perfect heathen. When the last minister asked him why he never went to church, he said, too many ugly women there, Parson, too many ugly women. I should like to go to such a man, Mrs. Dr. Deer, and say to him solemnly, there is an owl. Oh, Norman doesn't believe there is such a place, said Miss Cornelia. I hope he'll find out his mistake when he comes to die. There, Mary, you've knit your three inches and you can go and play with the children for half an hour. Mary needed no second bidding. She flew to Rainbow Valley with a heart as light as her heels and in the course of conversation told Faith Meredith all about Mrs Alec Davis. And Mrs Elliot says that she'll turn all of the Douglases against your father and then he'll have to leave the Glen because his salary won't be paid, concluded Mary. I don't know what is to be done honest to goodness. If only Norman Douglas would come back to church and pay, it wouldn't be so bad. But he won't, and the Douglases will leave, and then you will all have to go. Faith carried a heavy heart to bed with her that night. The thought of leaving the Glen was unbearable. Nowhere else in the world were there such chums as the Blythes. Her little heart had been wrung when they had left Maywater. She had shed many bitter tears when she parted with Maywater Chums and the old manse, there where her mother had lived and died. She could not contemplate calmly the thought of such another and harder wrench. She couldn't leave Glen St. Mary and dear Rainbow Valley and that delicious graveyard. It's awful to be a minister's family, groaned Faith into her pillow. Just as you get fond of a place you were torn up by the roots, I'll never, never marry a minister, no matter how nice he is. Faith sat up in bed and looked out of the little vine-hung window. The night was very still, the silence broken only by Una's soft breathing. Faith felt terribly alone in the world. She could see Glen St. Mary lying under the starry blue meadows of the autumn night. Over the valley a light shone from the girls' room at Ingleside, and another from Walter's room. Faith wondered if poor Walter had toothache again. Then she sighed, with a little passing sigh of envy of Nan and Di. They had a mother and a settled home. They were not at the mercy of people who got angry about any reason and called you a varmint. Away beyond the glen, amid fields that were very quiet with sleep, another light was burning. Faith knew it shone in the house where Norman Douglas lived. He was reputed to sit up all hours of the night, reading. Mary had said if he could only be induced to return to the church, all would be well. And why not? Faith looked at a big, low star hanging over the tall, pointed spruce at the gate of the Methodist church and had an inspiration. She knew what ought to be done, and she, Faith Meredith, would do it. She would make everything right. With a sigh of satisfaction, she turned from the lonely, dark world and cuddled down beside Una. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.