s unappreciated worth
was the tender secret Larry shared with his sweethearts, and he was always
able to make some foolish heart ache over it.

As I drew near home that morning, I saw Mrs. Harling out in her yard,
digging round her mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had now
no boy to help her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruising somewhere
on the Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate--it was with a feeling of
pleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked the feel
of it under my hand. I took the spade away from Mrs. Harling, and while I
loosened the earth around the tree, she sat down on the steps and talked
about the oriole family that had a nest in its branches.

"Mrs. Harling," I said presently, "I wish I could find out exactly how
Antonia's marriage fell through."

"Why don't you go out and see your grandfather's tenant, the Widow
Steavens? She knows more about it than anybody else. She helped Antonia
get ready to be married, and she was there when Antonia came back. She
took care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything.
Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkable
memory."

III

ON the first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out
for the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was
over, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of
smoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now
being broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was
disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There were
wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards,
and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and men
who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and the
blazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flat
tableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back in
long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful and
harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of a
great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I found
that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers the
modeling of human faces.

When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet
me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was
little, her m