Kilmeny of the Orchard

Lindsay fields and woods, in the mellowness of "the sweet 'o the year." Most of the Lindsay houses were built along the main road, which

and walked briskly along, enjoying the witchery of the season all about him in earth and air and

ht from the setting sun. He went through it, walking up a long, purple aisle where the wood-flo

ce, was delightful still, none the less so for the air of gentle melancholy which seemed to pervade it, the melancholy which invests all places that have once been the scenes of joy and pleasure and young life,

summers. At regular intervals along the fence were tall, gnarled fir trees, and an evening wind, sweeter than that which blew over

therefrom to the tall veterans of the mid-grove, unbrokenly and evenly, giving the effect of a solid, slopi

ill visible, bordered by stones and large pebbles. There were two clumps of lilac trees; one blossoming in royal purple, the other in white. Between them was a bed ablow with the starry spikes

of trees with green avenues between, each tree

ies; but the orchard laid hold of him subtly and drew him to itself, and he was never to be quite his own man again. He

lung himself down in a grassy corner of the fence where another lilac bush grew, with ferns and wild blue violets at its roots. From where he now was he got a glimpse of

cross a long valley brimmed with shadow were uplands of sunset, and great sky lakes of saffron and rose where a soul might lose itself in colour. The air was very fragrant

see visions. What a sky! Could anything be diviner than that fine crystal eastern blue, and those frail white clouds that look like woven l

ht. Was he dreaming? No, it was real music, the music of a violin played by some hand inspired with the very spirit of harmony. He had never heard anything like it; and, somehow, he felt quite sure that nothing exactly like it ever had been heard before; he b

wfall, the white thoughts of the June lilies, the rejoicing of the apple blossoms; all the soul of all the old laughter and song and tears and gladness and sobs the

Then a very natural curiosity overcame him. Who in Lindsay could play a violin like tha

e did not wish to interrupt the player. When he reached the open space of the garden he stop

ments he stood there and looked at her. The pictures she made photographed itself on his vision to the finest detail, never to be blotted from his book of remembrance. To his latest day Eric Marshall will be able to recal

utiful women. But he knew at once, beyond all possibility of question or doubt, that he had never seen or imagined anything so exq

er seen in eyes before, the tint of the sea in the still, calm light that follows after a fine sunset; they were as luminous as the stars that came out over Lindsay Harbour in the afterglow, and were fringed about with very long, soot-black lashes, and arched over by most delicately pencilled dark eyebrows. Her skin was as fine and purely tinted as the heart of a white rose. The collarless dress of pale

d to be playing half unconsciously, as if her thoughts were far away in some fair dreamland of the skies. But presently she looked

c breaking in mid-strain and the bow slipping from her hand to the grass. Every hint

alarmed you. But your music was so beautiful that I did not reme

ed alarm of a shy, childlike creature who had thought herself alone, but absolute terror. It was betrayed in her blanched and

t him in such a fashion, at him who had

nly of calming her fear, and speaking as he would to a

chard, through a gap in the northern fence and along what seemed to be a lane bordering the fir wood beyond and arched over with wil

violin bow, feeling slightly

ve never thought I was a particularly hideous person, but certainly this adventure has not increased my vanity to any perceptible extent. Perhaps I have wandered into an enchanted orchard, and been outwardly transformed into an ogre. Now that I have come to think

hard was full of soft, creeping shadows and silences. It seemed to wink sleepy eyes

t I certainly wish she hadn't fled in such evident terror. Eyes like hers were never meant to expre

tures that were beginning to be moonl

e their names? Florrie Woods, Melissa Foster-no, Melissa Palmer-Emma Scott, and Jennie May Ferguson. Can she be one of them? No, it is a flagrant waste of time and gray matter supposing it. That girl c

he tried to forget, the more keenly and insistently he remembered. The

this. He felt that it was impossible to ask Robert Williamson and probably have the girl's name overflowed in a stream of petty gossip concerning her and all her antecedents and

of the lobstermen had promised to take him out cod-fishing

It was still the same fragrant, grassy, wind-haunted spot. But

lithe, girlish figure stealing with a beating heart through mingled shadow and moonshine. "I wonder if she will pos

nse, his "gumption," as old Robert Williamson would have said? Naturally a man liked to look at a pretty face. But was that any reason why he should feel as if life were flat, stale, and unprofitable simply because he could not look at it? He called himself a fool and went home in a pet

hurch and its occupants practically faced the congregation. Eric looked at every girl and woman in the audience, but h

h untrained voice, which dominated the singing and took the colour out of the weaker, more commonplace tones of the other singers. He was well-dressed in a suit of dark blue serge, with a white collar and tie.

od-fishing, and Tuesday evening he went up to play checkers with Alexander Tracy. Alexa

gathering," he complained to his wife. "He'll n