THE RETURN Wareville lay in its pleasant valley, rejoicing in the young spring, so kind with its warm rains that the men of the village foresaw a great season for crops.

The little river flowed in a silver current, smoke rose from many chimneys, and now and then the red homemade linsey dress of a girl gleamed in the sunlight like the feathers of the scarlet tanager.

To the left were the fields cleared for Indian corn, and to the right were the gardens.

Beyond both were the hills and the unbroken forest.
Now and then a man, carrying on his shoulder the inevitable Kentucky rifle, long and slender-barreled, passed through the palisade, but the cardinal note of the scene was peace and cheerfulness.

The town was prospering, its future no longer belonged to chance; there would be plenty, of the kind that they liked.
In the Ware house was a silent sadness, silent because these were stern people, living in a stern time, and it was the custom to hide one's griefs.