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IV
Nature repeated herself the next
morning. There was the same blue
sky, the same pile of downy white
clouds in the west, the same ethereal
gold flooding the April land, the same
stillness, as though Nature held finger
to lip. And, as before, the air was
sweet with the fragrance of apple-blossoms.
Miles watched Hunter Brough seat himself in the Inn carryall, a canvas wrapped in newspapers held carefully on his knees, and disappear in the direction of the railroad. So did Bistre. Bistre had a philosophy of his
