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 was as though Nature had found a day mislaid from Indian summer and had frugally tucked it into December.

Miles climbed the breach in the stone wall and went softly through the orchard. The gnarled, low-spreading trees were deep in their winter slumber. Beneath them the turf was carpeted thickly with leaves limp and brown. There were no clustered blossoms to obstruct his view, and, once over the wall, Miles could see the sunlit glade and the little brook, its course marked by a ribbon of crystal blue. Beside the brook, looking toward the road, as though striving to reproduce in mind the scene she had put upon canvas, stood the Princess. Her back was toward him, and, with fast-beating heart, Miles went softly down the slope. But Bistre was little inclined for such slow going, and so, while