rifty, hard-working farmer folk might think of gay, Bohemian
Blair Stanley in his absence, in his presence even they liked him, by
the grace of some winsome, lovable quality in the soul of him. He had
"a way with him"--revealed even in the manner with which he caught staid
Aunt Janet in his arms, swung her matronly form around as though she had
been a slim schoolgirl, and kissed her rosy cheek.

"Sister o' mine, are you never going to grow old?" he said. "Here you
are at forty-five with the roses of sixteen--and not a gray hair, I'll
wager."

"Blair, Blair, it is you who are always young," laughed Aunt Janet, not
ill pleased. "Where in the world did you come from? And what is this I
hear of your sleeping all night in the hammock?"

"I've been painting in the Lake District all summer, as you know,"
answered Uncle Blair, "and one day I just got homesick to see my little
girl. So I sailed for Montreal without further delay. I got here at
eleven last night--the station-master's son drove me down. Nice boy. The
old house was in darkness and I thought it would be a shame to rouse you
all out of bed after a hard day's work. So I decided that I would spend
the night in the orchard. It was moonlight, you know, and moonlight in
an old orchard is one of the few things left over from the Golden Age."

"It was very foolish of you," said practical Aunt Janet. "These
September nights are real chilly. You might have caught your death of
cold--or a bad dose of rheumatism."

"So I might. No doubt it was foolish of me," agreed Uncle Blair gaily.
"It must have been the fault, of the moonlight. Moonlight, you know,
Sister Janet, has an intoxicating quality. It is a fine, airy, silver
wine, such as fairies may drink at their revels, unharmed of it; but
when a mere mortal sips of it, it mounts straightway to his brain, to
the undoing of his daylight common sense. However, I have got neither
cold nor rheumatism, as a sensible person would have done had he ever
been lured into doing such a non-sensible thing; there is a special
Providence for us foolish folk. I enjoyed my night in the orchard; for
a time I was companioned by sweet old memories; and then I fell asleep
listening to the murmurs of the wind in those old trees yonder. And I
had a beautiful dream, Janet. I dreamed that the old orchard blossomed
again, as it did that spring eighteen years ago. I dreamed that its
sunshine was the sunshine of spring, not autumn. There was newness of