Rainbow Valley

Being frightened of things is worse than the things themselves.

And in the garden the petals of the last red rose were scattered by a sudden little wind. Summer was over—it was autumn.

But she's also a human being with an immortal soul to save.

Their music was woven into his growing soul—the music of the immortals.

The hills beyond glistened with the chill splendid lustre of moonlight on snow. Every little fir tree in the long valley sang its own wild song to the harp of wind and frost.