Kilmeny of the Orchard

dew, and the odours of a bed of wild mint upon which he had trampled. Robins were whistling, clear and sweet and sud— den, in the woods all about him.

“ This is a veritable ‘ haunt of ancient peace,’ ” quoted Eric, looking around with delighted eyes. “ I could fall asleep here, dream dreams and see visions. What a sky! Could anything be diviner than that fine crystal eastern blue, and those frail white clouds that look like woven lace? What a dizzying, intoxi— cating fragrance lilacs have! I wonder if perfume could set a man drunk. Those apple trees now—why, what is that? ”

Eric started up and listened. Across the mellow stillness, mingled with the croon of the wind in the trees and the flute-like calls of the robins, came a strain of delicious music, so beautiful and fan- tastic that Eric held his breath in aston— ishment and delight. Was he dreaming? No, it was real music, the music of a violin played by some hand inspired with the

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