VALLEY

THE HOUSE ON THE HILL 131really acquainted with a minister," he told his motherthat night.John Meredith drank from his slender white hand,whose grip of steel always surprised people who wereunacquainted with it,and then sat down on the mapleseat. He was in no hurry to go home; this was abeautiful spot and he was mentally weary after around of rather uninspiring conversations with manygood and stupid people. The moon was rising. RainbowValley was wind-haunted and star-sentinelledonly where he was, but afar from the upper end camethe gay notes of children's laughter and voices.The ethereal beauty of the asters in the moonlight,the glimmer of the little spring, the soft croon of thebrook, the wavering grace of the brackens all wove awhite magic round John Meredith. He forgot congregationalworries and spiritual problems; the yearsslipped away from him; he was a young divinity studentagain and the roses of June were blooming redand fragrant on the dark, queenly head of his Cecilia.He sat there and dreamed like any boy. And it wasat this propitious moment that Rosemary West steppedthataside from the by-path and stood beside him indangerous, spell-weaving place. John Meredith stoodup as she came in and saw her really saw her forthe first time.He had met her in his church once or twice andshaken hands with her abstractedly as he did withany one he happenedto encounter on his way down