Produced by Al Haines TREASURE VALLEY BY MARIAN KEITH _Author of "Duncan Polite," "The Silver Maple," etc,_ JENNINGS & GRAHAM CINCINNATI, CHICAGO, KANSAS CITY, SAN FRANCISCO 1909 Copyright, 1908, by GEORGE H. DORAN J. F. TAPLEY CO. New York CONTENTS CHAPTER TOC I. THE HERMIT THRUSH SINGS II. AN ADVENTUROUS EXPEDITION III. HIS FIRST PATIENT IV. THE ORPHAN ARRIVES V. THE MILKSTAND CLUB VI. A FAMOUS PRACTITIONER VII. THE TRAINING OF THE ORPHANS VIII. A STRANGE COMRADESHIP IX. THE SONG IN THE NIGHT X. THE SECRET OF THE BLUE SILK GOWN XI. THE COMING OF ROSALIE XII. A RUSH FOR THE GOAL XIII. THE TREASURE-BOOK XIV. THE HERALD OF SPRING XV. THE ELOPEMENT XVI. THE CALL OF THE BANSHEE XVII. THE DAWN XVIII. THE END OF THE WAITING XIX. THE HERMIT SINGS AGAIN ETOC TREASURE VALLEY CHAPTER I THE HERMIT THRUSH SINGS Then twilight falls with the touch Of a hand that soothes and stills, And a swamp-robin sings into light The lone white star of the hills. Alone in the dusk he sings, And the joy of another day Is folded in peace and borne On the drift of years away. --BLISS CARMAN. Other years, by the time the mid-June days were come, the little brook that sang through John McIntyre's pasture-field had shrunk to a mere jeweled thread of golden pools and silver shallows, with here and there only the bleached pebbles to mark its course. But this summer was of a new and wonderful variety. Just two or three brilliant, hot days, and then, as regular as the sun, up from the ocean's rim would rise dazzling cloud-mountains, piling themselves up and up into glorious towers and domes and battlements; and when the earth had begun to droop beneath the sun's blaze, with a great thunder signal they would fling their banners to the zenith, and pour from their dark heights a rain of silver spears, till the thirsty hills were drenched with bounty, and the valleys laughed and sang. And so there had never before been such a June, not even in Acadia: such lavish wealth in orchard and garden, such abundant promise of harvest in fields choked with grain. And that was why John McIntyre's little brook ran brimful to the clumps of mint and sword-grass, high up on its banks, so content that it made no murmur as it slipped past the Acadian orchards to the sea. John McIntyre leaned against the fence that bordered his hay-field, his feet deep in the soft grass at the water's edge. His straw hat was pushed back, showing the line where his white forehead met the tan of his face. His hands were in his pockets, a sprig of mint in his mouth; his eyes were half closed in lazy content.