ould fling
their banners to the zenith, and pour from their dark heights a rain of
silver spears, till the thirsty hills were drenched with bounty, and
the valleys laughed and sang.

And so there had never before been such a June, not even in Acadia:
such lavish wealth in orchard and garden, such abundant promise of
harvest in fields choked with grain. And that was why John McIntyre's
little brook ran brimful to the clumps of mint and sword-grass, high up
on its banks, so content that it made no murmur as it slipped past the
Acadian orchards to the sea.

John McIntyre leaned against the fence that bordered his hay-field, his
feet deep in the soft grass at the water's edge. His straw hat was
pushed back, showing the line where his white forehead met the tan of
his face. His hands were in his pockets, a sprig of mint in his mouth;
his eyes were half closed in lazy content.

Away down yonder, where the little stream met the ocean, the sun was
sinking into the gleaming water, a great, fiery ball dropping from an
empty sky. Far over in the east one lonely cloud reflected its glory,
blossoming up from the darkening hills like a huge white rose, flushed
with pink.

The fiery ball touched the ocean's rim, and the whole world kindled
into a glory of color. The fading green fields brightened, quivered
and glowed, as over them fell a veil of lilac mist. Through them wound
the little river, a stream of molten gold. Just at John McIntyre's
feet it passed lingeringly through a bed of rushes, where the dark
green of the reeds turned the golden water to a glittering bronze.
Their shadows wrought a marvelous pattern on the glossy surface, a
magic piece of delicate bronze filagree such as nature alone could
trace. Above it the swallows wheeled in the violet shadows, or soared
up, flashing, into the amber light.

John McIntyre's eye followed their dizzy curves into the vast crystal
dome. Yes; to-morrow would surely be a fine day. For to-morrow he was
to take Mary and the children away down to that dazzling line of jewels
on the horizon, where the winds and the waves of the Bay of Fundy
tumbled about and buffeted one another joyously in the coolness of the
ocean spray. It was their one great day in the year--the anniversary
of their wedding. They had never missed its celebration in their eight
happy years of married life. And there would be six altogether in the
party to-morrow, besides Martin. How a man's family did gr