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 come again in the fall and see if it had been apples. See, it’s loaded. They look good, too—tawny as russets but with a dusky red cheek. Most wild seedlings are green and uninviting.”

“I suppose it sprang years ago from some chance-sown seed,” said Anne dreamily. “And how it has grown and flourished and held its own here all alone among aliens, the brave determined thing!”

“Here’s a fallen tree with a cushion of moss. Sit down, Anne—it will serve for a woodland throne. I’ll climb for some apples. They all grow high—the tree had to reach up to the sunlight.”

The apples proved to be delicious. Under the tawny skin was a white, white flesh, faintly veined with red; and, besides their own proper apple taste, they had a certain wild, delightful tang no orchard-grown apple ever possessed.

“The fatal apple of Eden couldn’t have had a rarer flavor,” commented Anne. “But it’s time we were going home. See, it was twilight three minutes ago and now it’s moonlight. What a pity we couldn’t have caught the moment of transformation. But such moments never are caught, I suppose.”

“Let’s go back around the marsh and home by way of Lover’s Lane. Do you feel as disgruntled now as when you started out, Anne?”

“Not I. Those apples have been as manna to a hungry soul. I feel that I shall love Redmond and have a splendid four years there.”

“And after those four years—what?”