“Well, speculating on what men are a-going to do in this life is about like trying to read turkey tracks in the mud by the spring-house, and I’m not wasting any time on Gid Newsome’s splay-footed impressions.  Come to-morrow night I’m a-going to pull the front door to for the last time on all of us and early next morning Tom Crabtree’s a-going to take the letter and deed down to Gid in his office in the city for me.  Don’t nobody have to foreclose on me; I hand back my debt dollar for dollar outen my own pocket without no duns.  To give up the land immediate are just simple justice to him, and I’m a-leaving the Lord to deal with him for trying to buy a woman in her time of trouble.  We haven’t told it on him and we are never a-going to.  I wisht I could make the neighbors all see the jestice in his taking over the land and not feel so spited at him.  I’m afraid it will lose him every vote along Providence Road.  ’Tain’t right!”

“I know it isn’t,” answered Rose Mary.  “But when Mrs. Rucker speaks 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 outheld to her, and in turn she had had their babies and troubles laid on her own breast for her and their comforting.  She had been mothered and sistered and brothered by these farmer folk with a very prodigality of friendship, and to-day she realized more than ever with positive exultation that she was brawn of their brawn and built of their building.