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"I don't."
"Oh, Lord!" groaned the artist. "He's as mad as a March hare!"
"You don't think it will rain, do you?" Miles asked.
"No, I don't," answered Hunter, irascibly. He wandered off into a slow waltz tune, humming softly. The valley was in twilight. Lights shone from the windows down the road and twinkled from the farm-houses across the meadows. From behind the cottage came the chatter of the little stream, subdued and lulling. In the purple heavens a multitude of white stars scintillated. A little breath, damp and chill, crept down the long slope and fluttered the leaves.
"It's getting cold," murmured Miles, arousing himself from his thoughts. "Let's go in."
There was no reply from the oppo-
