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“It m-must have been the trees,” she ventured—her glance in the direction of Una, the flower sprite, said that she was accustomed to the whims of a girl as timid as she was finespun.

“But there wasn’t any breeze, I tell you!” Una stamped deliriously. “The pines—the beeches—weren’t even stirring.”

Silent, for a moment, she gazed thoughtfully out at her May garden—at the woods, the hills, beyond it.

“’Twasn’t like anything I ever heard before,” she murmured pensively. “Not like any sound in Nature, at all! ’Twas like the fine small music Andrew speaks of that calls the—fairies—”

“Andrew!” Her father suddenly set his foot down in relief—the vague annoyance in his face melting, “I’ve a great mind to dismiss that ‘blellum.’ A fogy whose tongue drips folk lore as a rain streak drips mist! Whose stories—”

“Ending with; ‘An if a’ tales be true,’ that’s no lie,” put in Pemrose slyly, with a preoccupied glance at an adjoining room where, in splints and bandages, a young aviator, with a mocking brown speck in one gray eye, lay dreaming of his fiery “note.”