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down into a little glade through which a tiny brook tumbled. Beyond it the orchard began again; but here was an unplanted space of lush grass and forget-me-nots and violets and—and
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Miles turned wonderingly to the
dog.
"The Princess!" he whispered.
Bistre wagged his tail in a way which said as plainly as you like, "Of course; who else?"
At a little distance, just beyond the blossom-laden branches of an apple-tree, stood an easel, from the top of which hung a blue sun-bonnet. On the easel was a canvas, a confused blur of pink and green. Before the canvas, brush in hand, sat a girl. The shadows had travelled eastward since she had placed her stool, and a flood of sunlight was upon her, tingeing her white
