Its NOT FRIDAY!

I know, I missed Friday! I didn't post anything! I have broken my record! But as fast as the days are flying, it will be Friday again before I know it. So, I think I'll wait until then to post a new story. Until then.

The Race Won By Inches

I know it is not Friday, but I'm not sure what I will be doing in the morning, so I thought I'd just go ahead and post this tonight. I guess that means that any of you who get on the computer late at night instead of early in the morning will get a chance to read it first.:) This was also a "writing assignment." But don't worry, it is not about elephants.:) Enjoy!

The Race Won By Inches
by Rebekah Morris

One beautifully sunny morning, Cecil Centipede stopped to laugh at Inez Inch Worm slowly inching himself along the ground.
“Ha, ha!” he jeered. “You are so slow! You can’t even make it across the sidewalk before I have crossed it ten times! You are the pokiest, loiteringest, slowest insect I have ever seen!” He continued to taunt as Inez humped along.
Now Inez was growing irritated because Cecil Centipede kept bugging him day after day about his speed. That morning was the last Inez Inch Worm could tolerate.
“Would you like to race?” he questioned, pausing half way across the sidewalk.
“Race!” Cecil howled with laughter. “You’re not just slow, you’re stupid too. Ha, ha! Sure I’ll race. I’ll be at the finish line before you have even started! Ho, ho!” Cecil acceped the race as a joke because he thought it would be no contest.
Well, the race was planned. Spencer Spider and Anthony Ant were finally chosen to act as the judges, and the race course was carefully chosen. The day of the race was perfect, not too hot or too cold.
“Racers, take your places!” Anthony Ant bellowed. “On your mark, get set, GO!”
The race had begun! Right from the start Cecil Centipede took the lead; his hundred legs working so fast that the onlookers could scarcely see them. Inez Inch Worm was soon left in the dust, slowly but steadily humping his way along the track.
Cecil was gloating to himself as he ran of how easy this race was when all of a sudden one of his legs became tangled with another, and before he could stop, he fell. There he lay, his hundred legs all hopelessly tangled in one great big knot! How he squirmed. How he wriggled. But the more frantically he tried to free them, the more impossibly tangled they became. He comforted himself, however, with the thought that Inez was so far behind that he would never catch up.
Inching down the track, Inez spied the tangled legs of Cecil off to one side. He decided not to say anything, but continued on his way one inch at a time. Before long the finish line was reached and cheers erupted on all sides.
“Inez Inch Worm wins the race!” shouted Spencer Spider. “Three cheers for the winner!”
The exuberant cheers reached the ears of Cecil Centipede just as he finally succeeded in freeing the last of his legs. He leaped to his feet and raced to the finish line.
“I demand a re-race!” he shouted indignantly, but no one heard him.
Thus it was that inch by inch Inez the Inch Worm won the now famous and much talked of race.

The End

Part 2 of no title

Here it is, Meleah. Just for you. I tried to answer your questions. For those of you who haven't read the first part of this story, or can't remember it, it was the very first story I posted back in January. Sorry, I have no idea how to link back to that, so I guess you'll just have to go to January and find the story with no title. If anyone comes up with a title for this, I'd love to hear it! It is a little awkward to say, "That story I first posted, you know, the one about those guys and they were in a hurry to get somewhere..." So I assume you are ready for the story. Here it is.

Part 2

The cabin had only one room, lighted on one side by a glowing fire and a few candles. The other side was shrouded in darkness and a rough bed was to be seen in the corner, a still form lying under the bed clothes.
The wind was heard whistling outside around the cabin, and Sally shivered a moment in Ty’s arms.
“I thought you’d never come,” she whispered. “Oh Ty, its been so very long.”
Ty released himself gently from the girl’s hands and returned the gun to its holster before saying anything, and then his tones were low,
“I didn’t intend for it to be this way. How’s Pa?” He glanced over at the bed as he spoke.
“Very weak.”
Ty moved slowly over to the bed and gazed in silence at the thin, rough face of the man who was his father. It had been two years. Two long years since he had left that cabin and joined Carson in a adventurous trek farther west into the Nevada territory. Little did he dream at that time how long it would be before he saw either his father or sister.
The man stirred and called feebly, “Sally.”
“Yes, Pa,” the girl answered quickly, “I’m here. And Pa, Ty is home.”
Slowly the sick, old man opened his eyes. His gaze wandered around the room, coming at last to rest on the rugged, bearded face of his son. “Ty, that you?”
“Yes Sir. I’ve come home.”
“Sally told me you’d come, an’ I didn’t doubt it. . . The Good Lord has been right kind. . . to me an’ I. . . prayed you’d make it home in time. . . to hear. . .” the older man’s feeble voice faded, and his eyes closed once more as he fell asleep, worn out after only a few words.
“That’s how he’s been for days now,” whispered Sally. “He hasn’t the strength to talk for more ‘n a few sentences ‘fore he goes to sleep once more.”
The brother and sister moved softly away from the bed. The girl ,struggling to keep the tears from her eyes, stirred the pot over the fire and then sank drearily onto an old log hewn bench.
Ty, taking off his coat and hat, hung them on a peg near the door. His movements were quiet yet an alertness not seen in his earlier riding, was visible. His keen gaze swept the cabin from one rough log side to the other taking in each small detail. His quick ear was the first to catch the sound of his companion’s footsteps in the snow before they reached the cabin. With the opening of the door, a blast of frigid, snow laden wind entered nearly blewing Carson into the room and snuffing the candles’ flickering flames. Ty hurriedly pushed the door shut, slipping the latch over it to secure it from the wind.
“Tain’t much feed fer the horses, but I reckon the storm ain’t gonna last too long.” Carson spoke with a softer voice than usual for he too had noticed the bed with it’s quiet occupant.
Sally filled a small tin cup with broth before motioning the two travelers to eat. This they obeyed at once, for such a long hard ride had stirred up quite an appetite in them.
Nothing was said in that dim cabin. The whistling of the wind round the chimney sounded as though it would gladly tear the old cabin down to get at those within its walls. Anyone who had not been used to the roaring and sighing would have been quite fearful. As it was, no one so much as noticed it save for an occasional glance now or then at some particular strong gust.
“Sally,” the sick man’s voice sounded from the bed.
Ty arose, followed his sister to the bed, and lifted with gentle hand the gray head of the father as Sally spooned some warm broth into his mouth.
“Ty, get the . . . pouch . . . hangin’ by my gun,” the voice was low but insistent.
Ty strode across the room to the door over which the rifle was hanging and lifted the old leather pouch. Placing it in his father’s hand he waited in silence.
“Get the Good Book, Child,” and Sally stumbled to a shelf and brought back the Family Bible, playing it gently on the bed at her father’s side.
It was several minutes before the old man spoke again.
“All these years . . . find her. You must!” In his excitement the father raised himself up and grasped Ty’s hand with a vise like grip. “Ty, promise me you’ll find her! Promise... promise...”
“I promise.” Ty assured quickly, trying to ease the old man back onto the pillow. “I’ll find her.”
The hold relaxed and the tired eyes closed. The face was white, and the breaths came in gasps from colorless lips for a few minutes then steadied into the slow breathing of the sleeping.
The young man turned at last with set face. “Who am I to look for?”
Sally shook her head. “I don’t know,” she choked over a sob. “I sometimes think his mind ain’t right. He’s never told me ‘bout any person needin’ found. In fact he never talked of anyone ‘cept you since he took sick.”
The night wore on. The storm raged with unabated fury through the woods and around the little cabin. Inside all was still. Carson slept, rolled in a blanket on one side of the darkened room. Sally sat on her little bench near the fire. Sat and thought, cried a little when she thought of her father and slept, then awakened and thanked God that Ty was home. As for that young man, he didn’t sleep. He spent most of the time sitting beside his father’s bed in silence. It was good to be back home again.


Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Since April of 1994 I have read a total of 770 new books. Anna, you were certainly the closest.:)

Mr. Pickup's Problem

Friday is here again already. I don't know where the days go, but I seem to have misplaced a few. Has anyone seen any stray days hanging around? I was able to get something a little more interesting than a paragraph about elephants ready this time.:) This is a short children's story I wrote. I am looking for someone to draw some pictures for it. If anyone is interested, I'd love to see what you come up with. Perhaps someday I will publish it. Right now it will just sit in my notebook and in a file on the computer. But, if you got on here, it wasn't to read my ramblings, was it? Okay here is the story. Enjoy!

Mr. Pickup’s Problem
by Rebekah Morris

Once upon a time, in a small town somewhere in the world, lived a man. His name was Mr. Pickup. Now Mr. Pickup owned a small store in the center of town where he sold many useful and some not so useful things.

One morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped to look at someone moving into the the shop next door. He paused for a few minutes to watch the men working.
“Hmm,” he said to himself, “they seem to have the same things that I sell.”

All during that day, Mr. Pickup wondered about the store next door.

The next morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped and his eyes opened wide as he looked at the shop next to his. It had a large sign over the door which read: “Best Buy.”
“Oh no,” Mr. Pickup thought, “what can I do?”

All that day he thought about that store beside his and wondered what to do.

The next morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped, his eyes opened wide, and he whistled as he looked at someone else moving into the shop on the other side of his store. On looking closely, he realized that they too had the same things he sold in his store.
“Oh no! What am I going to do now? Mr. Pickup thought.
All that day he thought about the new store and wondered what to do about the sign on the first store.

The next morning as Mr. Pickup walked to his store, he stopped, his eyes opened wide, he whistled and shook his head as he looked at the new store. The new store had an even larger sign over it’s door which read: “Lowest Prices.”

All that day Mr. Pickup sat alone in his store and wondered what he could do about the first store. And he wondered what he could do about the second store. And he wondered what he could do about their signs. He thought and thought.

He was still thinking as he walked home to his house. He thought as he ate his dinner. He thought as he got into bed and turned out the light.
Suddenly, a wonderful idea came to him, and he bounced out of bed. Not waiting to get dressed, he ran out to his garage and started working. He worked hard.

In the morning Mr. Pickup walked to his store. He was earlier than he had ever been. He didn’t stop, his eyes didn’t open wide, he didn’t whistle and he didn’t shake his head, but he got out his ladder and put up his own sign. In letters larger than the other signs were the words: “Main Entrance.”
All that day Mr. Pickup didn’t have time to wonder and think about the two other stores. He was very busy all day long. Mr. Pickup had solved his problem.

The End

Expertly Trained Elephants

Here it is Friday again, and I don't have any short story ready for you. I have been doing a ton of writing, but none on my book this week. I had an assignment for my "Teaching Writing" course I am doing, so I thought I would post that. No one will probably be interested in reading it, but as hardly anyone comments anyway, I wouldn't know if my posts even get read.:) (hint, hint) Seeing that the assignment was to be about elephants, I didn't have much choice when I wrote. However, I did manage to get all six dress-ups in as well as all six sentence openers and even managed to get at least two triples.:) If the paragraph seems a little over done, it is because I used everything instead on only some.:) And now with no more delay, here it is.

Expertly Trained Elephants
by Rebekah

Domesticated elephants can learn anything they are taught. Before an elephant can learn however, he must first be caught and domesticated. Humans might dig pits to catch them, or use fire, guns or loud frightening noises to drive the wild elephants into an enclosure. Training them to fight in human wars can be traced back to olden times when Hannibal overwhelmed and terrified the Europeans with his superbly trained elephant cavalry. Although elephants were taught to help batter forts in war, they also helped build them in peace. Asiatic elephants were used for transportation because of their great strength. Their great Herculean strength equals fifty horses. They are used in logging as well. Skillful men cut. Mighty elephants haul. Faithfully all contribute. Over the years, domesticated elephants who were wisely, expertly and cleverly trained for many different tasks have clearly leaned them well.


Now, you have either read the above short paragraph and thought "Surely she could do better than that," or you just skipped it thinking, "I don't what to read about elephants." But then, probably no one is even reading this. I feel as though I am rambling on to myself. I do like talking to myself, but not as well as I like talking to others.:) But be that as it may, I do have a question for you, just in case you do decide to read this.
How many "new" books do you think I have read since April 1994? By "new" books I mean books that I had never read before, be they old or new. Believe it or not, I have kept a list of each "new" book I have read since April 1994. Of course this list does not include all the books I read and re-read once, twice, five or ten times, nor does it include all the books I have skimmed but not read all the way though. Take a guess. I'll tell you the answer some other time.:)

"Home Fires of the Great War" . . .

As you can see, I decided to change the look of my blog. I just wanted to play with it. I really wasn't sure what I was doing, so I hope it looks okay.:)
I thought it was time I posted another bit from my book for you. This is from one of the "letters" I have just written. This was written by Emma in October 1917.


. . .Daddy’s visit was wonderful but much too short. He had to go back on Tuesday. He doesn’t have any idea when they will be shipped out. In some ways I think it is harder now to have Daddy gone after he was home, than it was when he left the first time. Why is that? Perhaps it is because at first we were stirred by all the news of patriotism, and now the reality of it all has sunk in. Whatever the reason, it was harder to say good by. Perhaps it is also the fact that we know Daddy could be shipped over to France any time now, while before, he was just going to a training camp.
I was so shocked to hear of Kent’s death! Poor Mary Jane! This war is really becoming more and more real. How many blue stars now hanging in windows will be gold before the war is over? Will ours be gold? Maybe that is really the reason it was harder when Daddy left this time. Deep down inside I wonder if... But I won’t even think it. . . .

. . . “Would you four older ones please sing “Keep the Home Fires Burning” for me?” Mama asked looking into the dying flames.
David hummed a note and then at his nod, we began:

“They were summoned from the hillside;
They were called in from the glen,
And the Country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the Soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking,
Make it sing this cheery song. . . .


Keep the Home fires burning...”

That last word “home” seemed to linger in the air around us as we ended. Someday this war will be over. And if we aren’t to meet here in our earthly home, we will meet in our heavenly one. The fire was not more than glowing embers with an occasional flame here or there. The cold could be felt, and though I had my coat on, I shivered.
Edmund glanced over at me before he spoke, “I hate to mention it, but it is getting late, and the wind is rather chilly to keep the younger ones out in it much longer. Besides, I don’t think I could sing another note.” . . .

Well, what did you think? Would you like me to keep putting bits of my book up?

"Whom Should She Trust?"

All right, now that "Ben-Gurion" is finished, I can post something else. This is another short story. I have been doing so much writing for different things lately that I don't think this story turned out really well. I know when I first started it, I got stuck. I couldn't think of a thing to write next. Then it dawned on me. I had started at the end of the story instead of the beginning. :) That certainly made a difference, but I had forgotten how many characters I was supposed to have. :{ Oops. I took out one guy, but no one else would leave. I think I now have one too many characters. I should also mention that I had never written anything using the special instructions I had for this story. I hope I did it right. It was difficult, but a good challenge. What do you think of it?

Oh, and by the way, if any of you would like to suggest things for another short story, just copy the "directions," put your answers in and e-mail it to me. I will then put it (or them) with the next pictures. I have over 40 pictures to write stories about, and I don't think Anna wants to write all the "directions.":) I'd be happy for any someone wants to send. Okay, now for the story.

Picture #2

Characters: 2 main, up to 3 minor

Word count: 2000-3000 2877
Tense: 3rd
Special Instructions: Bring out emotions through dialogue, do not describe them.
Time Given to Complete Story: 3 weeks. 9 days

Whom Should She Trust?

The room was dim and hushed. A young girl was kneeling beside the bed, deaf to any sound save the slow breathing coming from the form lying there. A sigh brought the girl’s head up, and her eyes gazed intently at the pallid face on the pillow.
“Papa,” she whispered, “speak to me once more. Tell me what to do, whom to trust. Oh, Papa--” she broke off abruptly as her father’s eyes opened slowly.
“Hannah?” The name was scarcely audible even in that still room.
“I am here, Papa. I am holding your hand.”
“Hannah,” he said again, “be careful whom you trust. Oh, be careful . . . They want the money . . . most of them. . . . There is a right one. You must not trust the others.” His eyes closed.
“How do I know whom to trust, Papa? How can I be sure he too doesn’t want just the money? Papa!”
The weary eyes fluttered once more. The girl bent tenderly over him.
“I . . . am . . . going . . . home now. Hannah, . . . come home . . . too . . .. Pray, Hannah.”
Hannah bowed her head, but no words could she utter though she tried.
“Father . . . keep . . . my little girl . . . safe.” A tired sigh followed the low whispered prayer, and all was still.
The doctor laid quiet fingers on the limp wrist and then glanced at the still form of the girl beside the bed.
“He is gone.” The words were spoken softly yet they reached the ears of the girl.
Hannah raised her head, looked long at the face on the pillow, then rose and left the room.
Yes, her father was dead. She was alone in the world. Alone. The word brought a shiver. Her whole life had changed so quickly. She had been sheltered and cared for; now so suddenly she must do for herself. Could she manage the large estate left her as well as the immense fortune which now belonged solely to her? What had her father meant when he told her they wanted the money? Who wanted the money? And who didn’t?
Hannah never fully remembered the days and even weeks that immediately followed her much loved father’s death. She was conscious of only one thing; she was alone.

One night, several months later, Hannah lay in her bed,staring out the nearby window at a brilliantly full moon.
“Oh, Papa, if you were only here to advise me! I think my heart will break without you! Oh, why am I so alone? Who is it that truly wants me and not my money? Is it Mr. Everson or Mr. Adkins? Or someone else? Mr. Everson asked me to be his wife this evening, and Mr. Adkins asked the same thing only two days before? If only I knew whom to trust!” Hannah turned restlessly on her pillow. “And Mr. Sawyer wants to buy that piece of land. How do I know the price he offered is fair?” For some time her thoughts were in turmoil. Unable to decide what to do and whom to trust, Miss Hannah made a decision to trust no one. She would live her life out alone if she had to. She had no real friends and no relatives near. Surely she could just stay quietly in her own home with her servants. “Perhaps someday,” she thought just before falling asleep, “I will find out who I can trust. Surely someone is trustworthy.”

And so, the days and weeks passed, turning into months and then into years. Hannah quietly dropped out of all social life, which wasn’t difficult for she had felt no interest in it since her father had died. The invitations for dinners gradually grew fewer and fewer and at last ceased all together. Former acquaintances now acknowledged her rare appearances in public places with a bow or a nod.

It had been three years since her father’s death. They had been three of the loneliest years of Hannah’s life. There had been times when her resolve to trust no one had nearly failed, only to be strengthened by stories of dishonor and treachery. She vowed she would remain the sole mistress of The Glen. “Unless,” she always added to herself, “I can find someone that I know I can trust.” The southern mansion was as beautiful as ever it was in the days gone by, yet the the former gaiety was gone. No longer were large parties held on the grounds in the warmer months nor in the large parlor and dining room in the winter. There was no one to enjoy the extensive grounds and spacious rooms except Miss Hannah and the servants.
“Miss Hannah, I’s sorry to bother you, but dere’s a gintleman dat insists on seein’ you.”
Miss Hannah looked up, “Oh, Candace, why do people persist in intruding where they aren’t wanted? Do tell him I am busy, otherwise engaged, anything.”
“So I did Miss, but he jest walked in an’ took a seat. Said he’d wait a spell. I ain’t sure what to do.”
The sunlight streamed in the large open windows upon the beautifully decorated library, the rows and rows of beautifully bound books and the lovely form seated at a desk. A gentle spring breeze wafted the delicate fragrance of the garden flowers into the room and stirred the dress and hair of Miss Hannah.
“Do, Candace, try once more to show him out, for I do not wish to see him.”
“I’ll try, Miss Hannah,” and Candace departed with a shake of her head.
A brief time elapsed ere the servant reappeared. “Tain’t no use, Miss Hannah. De gintleman say he won’t leave da place till he sees you if he has ta wait till tomorrow or de day after dat or de day after dat. An’ he didn’t give me no card an’ won’t tell me no name. I does like his looks though. I tink he is an honest man.”
“He is a very rude man if you ask me. No name, no card, and insists on seeing me when I have declined to see him. And yet, oh Candace, how can I refuse? My father would be ashamed if I were to act as my feelings now tell me to.”
Candace waited in respectful silence. She knew it was best to let her mistress speak her mind in peace.
“Very well, . . . I will see him. Show him in here, Candace.”
Miss Hannah once again turned wearily to her desk and picked up her pen, but she did not write. In spite of herself she felt a slight curiosity towards this strange gentleman who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Who was he, and what did he want? She had no desire to see him, she told herself, and yet at the sound of approaching footsteps she rose in dignified silence and turned towards the door, her father’s words repeating in her mind,
“Be careful whom you trust. Be careful whom you trust. . . .”
As the door was opened, the stranger paused on the threshold; a look of admiration plainly visible on his face at sight of the fair lady before him. After a low bow he entered. Miss Hannah gave a slight nod of acknowledgment and turned to Candace.
“Thank you, Candace. You may leave. I will ring for you when I want you again.”
Candace nodded and withdrew, leaving her mistress alone with the strange gentleman.
For a full minute they both stood in complete silence. Miss Hannah waiting for the gentleman to make his errand known and leave her once more in peace. The stranger, tall and broad shouldered, with an easy air about him, gazed in unconcealed admiration at his hostess.
“Hannah!”
Miss Hannah started.
“Oh, Hannah, it has been so long, and yet you haven’t changed. You are as beautiful as ever.” The gallant words were uttered as the stranger came forward with both hands outstretched and a smile on his face.
Miss Hannah took a step backward and reached for the bell while keeping an eye on her unwanted visitor.
The stranger saw his mistake and paused. “Hannah, don’t ring! You don’t recognize me. I should have known you wouldn’t. Here,” and he pulled off his waistcoat and pushed his left sleeve up revealing a jagged scar. “Does that tell you the truth?”
Miss Hannah stared at the scar and then into the blue eyes which looked so steadily and honestly back at her. It had to be . . . but how could she be sure?
The stranger seeing her distrust and hesitation, forever dispelled it by pulling out a curiously shaped watch guard and repeating as though from memory,
“This is a present from me to you. Whenever you see it, remember, be true.”
“John! It can’t be... But it has been five years! Why didn’t... How came you to... Where... when? Oh, John! Let me cry, it’s been so long!” Her head rested on his shirt front while the tears fell.
“My dear little Hannah. It is a long time, but the story is soon told.” John tightened his arms around her. “Can’t you even greet me with a smile? I promise I won’t run away this time.”
The merry words of long ago brought Hannah’s head up with a smile “as bright as the sun,” John thought as he kissed the fair girl in his arms.
“Oh, John! Come, tell me everything. I am longing to know.”
“Can’t we walk out in the garden? I feel so confined here.”
Hannah’s rippling laughter rang out as it had not done for so long. “You always felt that way here in this room while I loved it. Yes, of course we can go out. Let me just ring for Candace to bring me my shawl.”
“Stay,” John’s hand caught hers back from the bell. “Never mind the shawl. If you must have something, use this,” and with a quick move his waistcoat was around her shoulders. “I hate wearing one of those now as much as I ever did.”
“John, you are impossible!” and slipping her arm through his, she led the way out into the sunshine.

Candace turned from the doorway. “I jest knowd it. Dat’s her lubber sure ‘nough. I saw dat gintleman, an’ I says to my self, “Candace dat man has gotta be Miss Hannah’s lubber.” An’ now I knows I’m right.”
“Lubber? Miss Hannah’s? Candace, I thought yo had more sense den dat!”
Candace turned, hands on her hips, “Now Zeke Andrews, don’t you go an’ try ta tell me dat de man walkin’ right now in de garden with Miss Hannah ain’t her lubber. I knows better.”
Zeke looked out the door a moment. “Maybe its a cousin. I heard her say there’s a heap of dem, dough dey don’t come ‘round here no more.”
“An’ her wearin’ his coat! Now yo talkin’ like a man wit no sense in his head. Sure Miss Hannah got a heap o’ cousins, an’ I knowd dat. I’s seen dem all at de burin’ o’ Massa, an’ I’s sayin’ dat aint one.”

“Now tell me everything, John, please.” Miss Hannah looked as eager as a child as she gazed up into the face which was watching hers with such interest.
“It won’t take long. I only received your letter about Uncle’s death two months ago and have been trying to reach here ever since.”
“Two months ago! It has been three years since he--”
John drew her into a sunny walkway. “I know. It may seem hard to believe, but out west it is harder to receive mail. I do know that the letter had been sitting in a post office for eight months before I came by and claimed it. I had been traveling quite a bit. Even if I had left a forwarding address as they do here in the east, the letter would no sooner have started on its way, than I would have been on the move elsewhere.”
He was expecting the next question.
“Why didn’t you write and explain your long silence?”
“I did, many times, but no answer came back.”
Silence was the only reply. Miss Hannah was thinking of the order she had given to her servants after her father’s death and her decision to trust no one. “I want to see no mail or anything of the sort from strangers. I am alone and very wealthy. I may perchance fall prey to some scheming, dishonest man because he pretends to have love and sympathy for me while in reality he wishes for nothing but my money.” Could John’s letters be mixed in with those? Could Candace have inadvertently placed those letters with the others? It was possible. After all, she had never met John. He had already gone west when she came to The Glen. “I ... I ... I didn’t know you had written. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. I’m here now, and I’m staying for a while. By the way, I heard in town that Miss Hannah is very close and doesn’t like company. I hope she can reconcile herself to the fact that I will stay here and no where else.” John looked down at the blushing cheeks of his cousin.
“As if I’d really let you stay anywhere else,” was the reply which entirely satisfied him.
“Say, I remember that tree!” A turn in the walk brought them again in sight of the house. The large old tree stood near by; its gnarled branches stretching toward the sun and out in an arching canopy of shade when the leaves grew full.
“You ought to remember it. You nearly killed yourself falling out of it one day,” and Hannah shook her head at the remembrance.
“You mustn’t be too hard on a fellow, Hannah. I was laid up for weeks after that fall.”
“Don’t I know.”

The lamps were lighted, not in the library where Miss Hannah was want to spend her evenings, but in the parlor. John was with her and quite dignified and proper. For nearly three long years Miss Hannah had not enjoyed such an evening. She listened with interest as John told of his adventures out west in California. When the old clock chimed twelve o’clock, she started.
“John! Where has the time gone? I had no idea it was so late. You must be tired, and here I have kept you awake and talking until this late hour. Zeke,” she ordered, as that individual entered in answer to her summons, “show Mr. John to his rooms, please.”
John kissed her hand and bade her good night with a low and graceful bow.
“He may have spent the last five years out west, but he hasn’t lost all the charm of his early training,” Hannah thought as she issued orders for the morning before retiring herself.

Several days following the arrival of John, passed before Hannah gathered enough courage to tell him her troubles. Several times John had asked questions about her seclusion, but each time she had skillfully turned the conversation, leaving the questions unanswered.
The air was warm and pleasant. John and Hannah were outside together in the garden. The white pillars of the house shone in the sunshine, and the air was heavy with the perfume of hundreds of flowers, vibrant with life and beauty. “John,” Hannah interrupted his tale of life out west. “John, . . . I . . . I need help.”
“I’ll do all I can.”
“I don’t know if they want my money because I don’t know whom to trust. Can’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know if I can or not. Suppose you start at the beginning. Why can’t you trust someone, and who is that someone?”
Beginning with her father’s death, Hannah poured out the whole story. “And so I just stayed at home and wouldn’t trust anyone because I was so afraid.”
John remained silent for some minutes after his cousin had ceased talking. “Hannah,” he said at last, “there is Someone who will never be dishonest with you if you will only trust Him.”
“Any one, John, if I can only know he is trustworthy.”
“The Lord Jesus Christ is the one I am talking about, Hannah. He is always faithful and will be a constant companion, friend and guide if you will let Him. I could never have survived some of the hardships out west if He hadn’t been with me.”
Hannah searched her cousin’s face. Was it possible to have the same peace that she saw on his face and had seen there since he had first made his appearance? She had seen that look also on her beloved father’s face just before he died. Could Jesus Christ help her? Would He? She could almost hear her father’s last words, “Father, keep my little girl safe.”
The silence grew so long that John turned to look at her.
“I do want to know Him, John. Will you show me how?”
The quietly spoken words sent a thrill through John’s very being. He would be delighted.
Thus it was that Miss Hannah Ward, the beautiful, young, and much admired heiress, at last found the only One whom she could perfectly trust, knowing that He would never be false to her.