Silversheene
Chapter I
The Fugitive
THE gleaming rays of the morning sun were falling aslant through the boughs of the great maples in front of Forest Edge Farm. It was October, and the trees were as brilliant with autumn coloring as Jack Frost could well make them. The air was clear and crisp. It went to the blood like old wine. Jays were squalling in the deep woods and crows were calling. Flocks of song birds might be seen gathering for the autumn migration. The beauty of summer had gone, but the full symphony of autumnal color was over all the landscape. It was a morning to be up and to be glad.
