It was Monday evening, and as so often in the past few months, Reverend John Meredith was a very welcome and frequent guest. Ellen had to admit, reluctantly, that she really liked Reverend Meredith, as his quiet, sly, almost buried humor were occasionally harmonizing perfectly with her own. Earlier John Meredith had read aloud, in his refined voice, from Ellen´s old copy of Milton's Paradise Lost. Sometimes Rosemary and Mr. Meredith sang duets, folk tunes, and hymns, but not tonight, but there was promise of muisc in the air. There always was, how could it be otherwise as Rosemary loved music as much as Ellen loved her own heart and home, and spirited discussions.


John Meredith glanced cautiously at Rosemary. She seemed completely focused on choosing notes, but occasionally, a light smile flickered across her lips as he leaned over to ask, some clarifying remark. Lingering music glowed, as Brahms, and Schubert unfurled and a quiet tension eased John Meredith's shoulders as the light purring of a black cat was heard. The selections changed, and he enjoyed the dexterity of Rosemary's slender fingers as he turned the notes, for seeing nothing of them, for the slight blush that glowed on Rosemary's cheeks in the shady firelight, completely distracted him. And suddenly Ellen's dark voice was heard behind, saying, gently, yet unyieldingly, "Mr. Meredith, it's getting late, it's nearly nine o'clock at night."

Roseamary's music ceased, chords lingered like half a cry.


John Meredith had no other choise than to offer his farewells for the evening. As he did so he almost overturned small potpurri of dried roses that were on the window-ledge. Rosemary's hands rushed to save the roses, and she laughed lightly, a slight, glimmering thing. John Meredith glanced quickly at Rosemary's face, but to his disappointment, serene features, with their soothing grace, were turned away from him, with almost careful deliberation. As he, eventually then, set out into the dark windy evening, he was absentmindedly wondering if he had remembered to exchange sermons with Mr. Perry next week, or was it perhaps not until next month? Mr. James Perry, that Presbyterian minister who always had such strong opinions about propriety and suitability.

John Meredith could almost hear in his ears, his smug voice suggestively pointing out all sorts of things as he took the short cut from Rainbow Valley utterly unseeing of it´s magical loveliness, as usual, but for once his distraction was not from Ellen's discussions, or from theology, but from Rosemary's bright look, as she had escorted John Meredith to the front steps, that was one of their mutual small habits, that had just happened, like breathing.


Afterwards, Ellen's blue eyes seemed sharp as she glanced at the notes that were on the stand; there were, Brahms's Geheimnis, and Schubert's Du Ring an meinem Finger, and Rosemary said in a placating voice, "I played these because you and Mr. Meredith have so often discussed the development of Germany."

"Perhaps so," replied Ellen "but I may have to go through your sheet music, for that Schubert was a fine example of philandering. I wonder truly, Rosemary, how did you not notice it?"

Rosemary sighed lightly and said curtly, "It was Schubert and nothing else. You can't expect me not to play one of my favorite composers for our guest." And lightly Rosemary turned her back on her sister, as she chose very particular notes, and soon light, soothing Brahms was shimmering in the dim room. And hearing, first strains Ellen retired to her own room, as Rosemary had known her to do so.


Rainbow Valley sparkled with the charm of first snow. The branches of the firs and pines had acquired a light snow cover almost overnight, which sparkled in the soft falling light, like a light mist dropped from the wings of fairies.

Ingelside's windows flooded with soft light, and on the edge of the fireplace, Gog and Magog stood guard, as they always did. Living room had recently been lit by the soft notes of piano, as the twins had their lesson. Rosemary Meredith's clear quiet voice had been heard, muffled for over an hour or so.

In the kitchen, Susan was clinking dishes.

And Anne thought once again how wonderful it was that her children had all the things she had missed when she was their age, like piano lessons, warm milk or cocoa on freezing nights, and that their wishes and concerns were listened to.

Red-cheeked Di flew from the living room into the hall, excitedly declaring "Mumsy, Miss West said we've made good progress."

Anne smiled in Di's direction, but her mind wandered back to Cornelia's last visit, when that kind hearted woman had pointed out in her pointed way, " However, it must be noted that tongues always wag if a widower or unmarried man visits a house where there are women. Immediately rumors start talking about marriage intentions, even if nothing happens. Well, that's human nature, curious. I do think that the trouble is that Rev Meredith thinks his heart is buried with his wife, when it isn't, but he's either noticed Rosemary, or not, but it is certain that despite all his dreaming he has a man-like clear opinion of himself. So it shouldn't be difficult to get a new mistress to Manse, if only Reverend were awake enough to see that side of things. I had hinted it to him, about a month ago, and he seemed very startled, with his saintly way."


And across Glen at the Drews' household, Emmeline remarked to her sister in a low voice, "Imagine if he proposed to Ellen, instead of Rosemary, out of pure absent-mindedness." And her sister nodded thoughtfully, knitting a couple of rounds of sock, before saying "Ellen has always been a bit odd, sweet hearted of course, but, kind of fierce to keep her sister's attention to herself. And I do declare that Norman Douglas, is simply impossible, as he is always shoving his books and his reading down the throats of decent people. I have to agree that his theology is also somehow strange. He constantly talks about hell, and laughs at Carter Flaggs, at some Rose-Red's antics, which is probably, some horse or calf."


The dishes were gently clinking in the Presbyterian Manse, for Aunt Martha had decided to make ditto soup that evening. John Meredith was in prosess of cutting bread, store-brought, from Carter Flagg as there was no Mary Vance to bake fresh loaves.

He was pondering some complicated theological dilemma, when one, name was uttered in Faith's bright voice. John Meredith was startled wide awake, and cautiously he listened attentively to his daughters' conversation.

"You know, Una, Miss West is just as understanding as Mrs. Blythe, but somehow more so, I think. I felt like I could tell her everything. I wanted to embrace her, but I didn't, because she embraced me, first. Yes, such a velvety, comforting embrace, and she called me her dearest, and you know, I felt a thrill then, as Nan always says, and that feeling is wonderful.

Una, on the other hand, didn't say anything. She just listened, attentive and pale. Her large wistful dark blue eyes were thoughtful, as she was looking at Faith's excited, beaming visage.

"Faith, so you liked Miss West?" John Meredith asked, in a voice that tried hard to be mundane, and ordinary, but that trembled a little. Faith declared, her cheeks glowing, "Oh, yes. I absolutely love her!"

"Ah," said John Meredith, in a voice whose darkly quivering intonation made Una look up from her soup plate.

And that evening the light in the Revered's study burned until the wee hours of the morning, as John Meredith walked the worn, dusty carpet, and thought fiercely. For that same kind of love, swift, full of romance, and first blush of roses in the moonlight, could never again enter his life.

The memories of his girlish, vivacious Cecilia were sacrosant. And almost every day, John noticed how Cecilia's different traits lived in their children. In Faith's liveliness, Carl's cheerfulness and Una's gentle, dreamy sweetness, and Jerry's sense of purpose and drive.

But Rosemary West was, something utterly else. Their souls spoke the same language, even from the first. That light, almost imperceptible bond was strengthened with each meeting, that slight, and subtle thing.


The setting sun reddened the snow, and in the stately Douglas house, Norman Doulglas glanced in passing at post that were in haphazard pile on the scrubbed pine table. A few circulars had arrived, and then an invitation. With strong fingers, he opened the letter.

And a sudden smile brightened his red, bearded face, and he remembered the wedding that had been danced at Lowbridge long ago. How gorgeous Ellen had been in her green dress, when they had devotedly discussed everything possible, between earth and heaven, and Ellen's hair had come out of its neat bun, and Norman had remarked teasingly "Cut them short, less effort." And Ellen had answered stingingly, and cuttingly.

Norman, was feeling thoughtful, as he smoked his evening pipe, and surveyed his large bookshelves.

Then he glanced in the mirror, which he did not usually do. Middle-age suited him, he found, and he had no desire to change his own situation, but if Ellen happened to be among those invited to the silver wedding, perhaps she could be talked to, if only for old times' sake.