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Bistre's. A cloud of tiny yellow butterflies
arose in front of him and settled
to earth again when he had
passed. A bluebird sang lustily on a
nearby tree, observing the passer curiously
with head held perkily on one
side. Presently the lane began to ascend
the hill, and Miles's limbs protested
lazily. Seating himself on a
wall where the top stones had hospitably
fallen into the orchard, he found
his pipe and pouch and began leisurely
to fill the blackened bowl, while his
gaze wandered idly over the meadow,
the curving road, and the line of cottages
basking in the morning sunlight.
Bistre, after nosing about along the
walls in half-hearted search for mice
or squirrels, sank down at the man's
feet and observed him questioningly
with the tip of his pink tongue showing
between his teeth. When the pipe was
