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one she welcomed. She never tired of reliving it.
    *                           *                           *         
    It had happened when she was sitting on this very stump—she had been six years old. A man had climbed up the hill to talk to her. His name was Walter Amburn, and Gwen would always believe that he had changed her life.
    Gwen had seen him before that day; for several months he had been coming to the house, mostly in the evenings, to escort her mother to various events. He was not a tall man—when Cassandra wore her high-heeled shoes, she was almost his height. His best feature was his hair, light brown and curly, although his nose was a bit too big for good looks and his eyes were too deep-set. But there was something about his face—something kind and humorous—that Gwen liked.
    She always knew when he was coming, because Cassandra’s eyes would flash in a way they never did normally. Sometimes, when she was getting dressed to go out with him, she would look at herself in the mirror and she wouldn’t like the dress she had chosen or the earrings, and she would change them at the last second—a phenomenon totally out of character for one as decisive as she. Then she would have to rush down the stairs in a clatter of high heels so she would not be late when Walter arrived—the rushing was also totally out of character. There would be an uncharacteristic note of excitement in her voice as she greeted Walter, told the maid to get her wrap out of the closet, and went out into the night with him. Sometimes his hand would be under her elbow guiding her gently down the front steps, sometimes it would rest for a second on the small of her back, also for guidance. And Gwen, young as she was, could sense that there was something special in that touch of hand to body.
    There were times when Walter and her mother did not leave the house right away, when they only had plans for dinner in a local restaurant, or at the home of friends. Then Walter would take off his coat and Cassandra would lead him to the living room where they would have drinks in front of the massive fireplace and eat the little canapés the cook had labored over. Or they would take their drinks into one of the cozier rooms, the library or the sitting room. The sound of them, of their laughter and talk, would echo down the halls of the house.
    Gwen had been introduced to Walter during one of these interludes. She had been told he was a special friend of Cassandra’s and she had believed it. But she hadn’t really talked to him—not until the day under the trees.
    When he appeared there in her refuge, Gwen had looked at him, seeing once again the kindness in his face and the warmth in his smile. Walter Amburn radiated warmth, everyone seemed to feel it. Now he was bending over so that Gwen and he were eye to eye.
    “I hope I’m not intruding,” he’d said gently. “Your nanny said I might find you here. I understand this is your special spot.”
    Shy, Gwen had nodded silently.
    Walter had looked appreciatively at the canopy of green branches overhead, the velvety moss, and the dappling of sunshine and shadow on the grass. “I can see why,” he said. “May I sit down?”
    Gwen nodded again, and in spite of his nice slacks and the possibility of grass stains, he settled himself on the ground next to her. He began talking to her, but not in the silly way that adults usually talked to children. Walter told her how the moss that carpeted the earth under them had grown, and he showed her how to tell how old a tree was. And before Gwen knew how it had happened she was telling him about the patch of sunshine a few feet away where the wild daylilies grew every summer and about the squirrels and the chipmunks she watched. She mentioned that she’d made up a story about this place that was so magical to her, and he asked her if she would mind telling it for him. It was a rather long and