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 
     
    

    
     58