A great relief from the turgid, sex-obsessed modern novel, is this fragrant, slightly old-fashioned and charming tale set at the turn of the century. The story takes place in a small Pennsylvania town; the people are unexciting- the events such as might happen in those days in such a town. And yet there is an undercurrent of deeply felt emotions, of recognized standards, of character, molded by tradition, upbringing and maturity. Violet Carpenter at 25 is beginning to feel the world is passing her by and just maybe she had better face up to a decision about Henry Martin, who had been generally accepted as her suitor by friends and neighbors. But much as she liked him, she felt the nightingale didn't sing in her heart at thought of marriage to Henry. But it took his reaction to the news that she wrote poetry to bring her to her senses. No, she could not marry Henry. And yet, who else was there for her? What the summer brings in the way of unexpected incident:- birth and death and marriage; picnics and firework parties; tightened budgets partly solved by taking in transients (or as Katie, the Carpenter's long time ""servant"" and friend, would call them ""transhens""); Mike-who was almost the right man; the disappearance of the nightingale music box, treasure of the Carpenters -- and the number of villagers suspected- and involved; and finally, the outcome of Violet's sending a sheaf of her verses to a Boston publisher- all this adds up to a heart-warming tale, a recapturing of the days of security. I liked it. And so will a lot of people, wearied of the unpalatable outpourings in today's fiction.