Rainbow Cottage

© 2013 by Grace Livingston Hill

Print ISBN 978-1-62029-390-4

eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62416-114-8
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62416-113-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com

Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

Printed in the United States of America.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About the Author

Chapter 1

1930s
Eastern United States

Grandmother lived down by the sea in summer, with a lovely stone seawall all around the garden and pillar roses climbing over it in pink riot.

The cottage was long and low and thatched, like Ann Hathaway’s, and there was ivy growing thick on the gable toward the sea, even climbing courageously up the great stone chimney and trailing down on the thatch.

Over against the back wall there were hollyhocks thickly massed, and all around the kitchen wall were morning glories, mostly blue and white. There were borders that blazed with portulaca and quieter ones of forget-me-nots and sweet alyssum and candytuft. There was a whole corner where the soft yellow of “hose-in-hose” cowslips shimmered in the spring sunshine and lit up the delicate tint of blue phlox, and a little later blazed with the brilliance of great oriental poppies; a long stretch of cheerful Shirley poppies shot here and there with bachelor buttons; farther on there was a mass of larkspur, pink and white and blue against the ivy on the back wall. Tall pale blue delphinium and Madonna lilies stood near the house, with the tea rose beds just across the path, and down beside the walk that led from the house to the arched gateway and the sea there was a great drift of blue flax as blue as the sea itself. It was a wonderful garden in a marvelous setting, and being there so unexpectedly just on the edge of the great rock-rimmed beach itself was all the more astonishing.

Grandmother was a brisk little old lady with a face that had survived many troubles and wise, bright eyes that would not be too sympathetic for one’s good, yet could twinkle with the youngest.

Grandmother stayed in her nest by the sea till the water began to beat high above her seawall and the garden had gone into shrouds for the winter. Then she made brief, bright visits to her sons and daughters and grandchildren and returned to get her house in order as soon as the first hint of spring came.

Grandmother still put up fruit in the old-fashioned way, pound for pound, and made jams and jellies enough for a hotel. She stocked her two deep cookie jars—one with molasses cookies, the other with big sugary caraway cookies—whenever a chick or child was coming to visit her. She had a little maid to help her, but she kept her skilled hand firmly over every bit of cookery that was concocted in her wide, white-tiled kitchen.

Grandmother had fine old engravings and oil paintings on her walls—pictures of other days, each one with a story to it—and many a child had sat at her feet and heard the stories over and over again, learning history, geography, political science—yes, and religion—at her feet.

Grandmother did not play bridge. She had never had time. And when anybody suggested her learning she would say, “Pooh! What would I want to waste my time like that for?”

She could knit, even the new intricate stitches. She had recently knit her oldest granddaughter a wonderful three-piece sports suit in delft blue and apricot colors for a gift toward her wedding trousseau, proving she was up-to-date to the last minute. Yet she still had a big print Bible on the little marble-topped stand that always stood by her own deeply cushioned resting chair. There was a rare old antimacassar, crocheted of finest thread in an intricate pattern, covering the marble of the little stand, and on that the Bible rested. Yes, and she read it, too, morning and night as she sat in her softly cushioned corner with her eyes far away on another world.

The youngest grandson called her “Gram” and considered her a chum. The youngest granddaughter called her “Babbie” and sat at her feet learning how to use a thimble. The oldest grandson called her “Grand” and said she was a good sport. The middle-sized granddaughter called her “Gwannie” and wheeled the very eyeteeth out of her. But every one of them adored her and delighted to have her come and visit, or better still to go down to the sea and spend the summer with her as they often did.

One day in the early summer a little pilgrim arrived at the wicket gate that swung in the rose-trimmed arch of the garden wall. A little battered, tempest-tossed soul, wayworn and weary and half-afraid. Shyly, hesitantly, half-defiantly she lifted the latch, opened the gate, and stepped within, gazing breathlessly around on the riot of joyous color, blinking her eyes and staring, unable to believe it was all true.

“Great God!” she said under her breath in a reverent, awestruck voice. “I never knew there could be anything as lovely as this!” Then after an instant, with conviction, “This can’t be the place, of course, but maybe they wouldn’t mind if I just stood and looked a minute, and perhaps they’ll be able to tell me where to find the right place; but I just must look at this while I’m here. I’ll never see anything like it again on earth, I’m sure. I’ve heard of heaven on earth! This must be it!”

She set down the cheap, antiquated little suitcase that held her worldly goods—and yet had room to sag with an emaciated air—and gazed around, her shoulders drooping from weariness, her fingers slowly unbending with relief from long carrying the burden.

She was a forlorn little creature, dressed in a shabby serge suit of a long-ago vintage, obviously sponged and pressed recently by an amateur hand. A little faded felt hat was pulled down over dark hair, which rioted out in places and caught the sunlight in little rings and waves and framed a face of delicate loveliness, whose fragile beauty was only the more startling perhaps because of the great dark rings under the sea-blue eyes. Even the sweetly curved lips drooped with weariness, and her whole slender figure sagged with exhaustion. She had walked all the way from the station, six miles away, and the heels of her shabby little shoes were worn crooked so that her feet were thrown out of balance.