And how I know the ways of the valley!  That day when we rode into it every tree seemed to be waving its green arms in salute.  As we swung through the gap, around the bend at the saw-mill and into the open country, checkered brown and yellow by fields new-ploughed and fields of stubble, a flock of killdeer arose on the air and screamed a welcome.  In their greeting there seemed a taunting note as though they knew they had no more to fear from me and could be generous.  I saw every crook in the fence, every rut in the road, every bush and tree long before we came to it.  But six months had I been away, yet in that time I had lived half my life, and now I was so changed that it seemed strange to find the valley as fat and full as ever, stretched out there in the sunshine in a quiet, smiling slumber.

“Things are just the same, Mark, you’ll notice,” said Tim, pointing to a hole in the flooring of the bridge over which we were passing.

The valley had been driving around that same danger spot these ten years.  There was a world of meaning to the returning wanderer in that broken plank, and it was not hard to catch the glance of my brother’s eye and to know his mind.

Henry Holmes on the front seat, driving, caught the inflection of Tim’s voice and cried testily:  “You are allus runnin’ the walley down.  Why don’t you tell him about the improvements instead of pintin’ out the bad spots in the road?”

“Improvements?” said I, in a tone of inquiry.

“Theop Jones has bought him a new side-bar buggy,” replied the old man.  “Then the Kallabergers has moved in from the country and is fixin’ up the Harmon house at the end of the town.”

“And a be-yutiful place they’re makin’ of it,” cried Isaac Bolum; “be-yutiful!”

“They’ve added a fancy porch,” Henry explained, “and are gittin’ blue glass panes for the front door.”

“We’ve three spring-beds in town now,” put in Isaac in his slow, dreamy way.  “If I mind right the Spikers bought theirs before war was declared, so you’ve seen that one.  Well, Piney Martin he has got him one—­let me see—­when did he git it, Henery?”

Old Holmes furrowed his brow and closed one eye, seeking with the other the inspiration of the sky.

“July sixth,” he answered.  “Don’t you mind, Ike, it come the same day and on the wery same stage as the news of the sinkin’ of the Spaynish fleet?”

“Nonsense,” retorted Isaac.  “You’re allus mixin’ dates, Henery.  You’re thinkin’ of Tip Pulsifer’s last baby.  He come July six, for don’t you mind how they called him Cevery out of pity and generosity for the Spayniards?  Piney’s spring-bed arrived the same day and on the same stage as brung us the news of Mark here havin’ his left leg shot off.”

“Mebbe—­mebbe—­mebbe,” muttered Henry, shaking his head dubiously.  “It certainly do beat all how things happens all at once in this world.  Come to think of it, the wery next day six of my sheep was killed by dogs.”