"We are nearly always here in the summer. In the winter we cruise.
But this winter we remained at home. It was splendid. The snow was
deep, and often I joined the village children on their bobsleds. I
made father ride down once. He grumbled about making a fool of
himself. After the first slide, I couldn't keep him off the hill. He
wants to go to St. Moritz next winter." She laughed joyously.

"I shall take the Arctic trip," he said to himself irrelevantly.

"Let us go and pick some apple blossoms. They last such a little
while, and they are so pretty on the table. So you were in Napoleon's
tomb that day? I have cried over the king of Rome's toys. Did Mr.
Breitmann receive those scars in battle?"

"Oh, no. It was a phase of his student life in Munich. But he has
been under fire. He has had some hard luck." He wanted to add: "Poor
devil!"

She did not reply, but walked down the terrace steps to the path
leading to the orchard. The sturdy, warty old trees leaned toward the
west, the single evidence of the years of punishment received at the
hands of the winter sea tempests. It was a real orchard, composed of
several hundred trees, well kept, as evenly matched as might be, out of
weedless ground. From some hidden bough, a robin voiced his happiness,
and yellowbirds flew hither and thither, and there was billing and
cooing and nesting. Along the low stone wall a wee chipmunk scampered.

"What place do you like best in this beautiful old world?" she asked,
drawing down a snowy bough. Some of the blossoms fell and lay