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unforgettable sweetness. 129THERECHAPTER XIIITHE HOUSE ON THE HILLwas a little unfailingspring, always icycold and crystal pure in a certain birch-screenedhollow of Rainbow Valley in the lower corner nearthe marsh. Not a great many people knew of itsexistence.The manse and Ingleside children knew, ofcourse, as they knew everything else about the magicvalley. Occasionally they went there to get a drink,and it figured in many of their plays as a fountain ofold romance. Anne knew of it and loved it becauseit somehow reminded her of the beloved Dryad'sBubble at Green Gables.Rosemary West knew of it;it was her fountain of romance, too. Eighteen yearsago she had sat beside it one spring twilight and heardyoung Martin Crawford stammer out a confession offervent, boyish love. She had whispered her ownsecret in return, and they had kissed and promised bythe wild wood spring.They had never stood togetherby it again Martin had sailed on his fatal voyagesoon after; but to Rosemary West it was always asacred spot, hallowed by that immortal hour of youthand love. Whenever she passed near it she turnedaside to hold a secret tryst with an old dreama dreamfrom which the pain had long gone, leaving only its

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