Poor Dad, he's so delightfully old-fashioned. He does so believe in
early marriages and husbands and wedding veils. And he thinks that
twenty-three is absolutely a grewsome age. Poor Dad! And he says too
that for what I have done to him in this trunk deal I shall be duly
punished. That the good Lord who looks after the fathers of willful,
old-maidish daughters will see to that. Why, he has gone so far as to
say that he wouldn't be surprised if I wound up by marrying some weird
country minister. Fancy that! Why, that from father is almost a
curse. And he's worried sick about my riding Gunshot. But I shall
manage. So expect to see me dash up to your gate in great style any
day now."

"Nanny," warned Grandma, "I don't trust that horse either. You'd
better be mighty careful. That horse isn't mean but it's young and
scary."

Nan however laughed at fear and rode all about and around Green Valley
town. And then one evening when she was least watchful and tired from
the long day's sport, a glaring red motor came honking unexpectedly
around the corner. So sudden was its appearance, so startling its body
in the sunset light, so shrill its screeching siren, that the young
horse reared. And Nan, caught unprepared, was helpless.

From the various groups of people standing about figures detached
themselves and shot across the square. But before any one could reach
her or even see how it happened, a tall stranger was holding the daring
girl close against his breast with one arm, and the quivering young
horse with the other.

He was reassuring the frightened animal and looking quietly down at the
girl's face against his breast. Under that quiet look Nan's blue-white
lips flushed with life and she tried to smile gratefully. When he
smiled back and said, "So you _did_ get back by lilac time," Nan was
well enough to wonder what he meant. And the little crowd of rescuers
arrived only just in time to hear Nanny thanking him.

But when he asked her where in Green Valley town Mary Wentworth lived
everybody stared and listened. Even Nan came near staring. But after
the puzzled look her face broke into a smile.

"Oh--you mean Grandma Wentworth?"

He smiled too and said, "Perhaps. I am a stranger in Green Valley.
But my mother was a Green Valley girl. She was Cynthia Churchill and
Mary Wentworth was her dearest friend."

"Then you are--why, you must be--" stammered Nanny.

"I am Cynthia Churchill's son."

"Fr