odours of a bed of wild mint upon which he had trampled. Robins
were whistling, clear and sweet and sudden, in the woods all
about him.

"This is a veritable 'haunt of ancient peace,'" quoted Eric,
looking around with delighted eyes. "I could fall asleep here,
dream dreams and see visions. What a sky! Could anything be
diviner than that fine crystal eastern blue, and those frail
white clouds that look like woven lace? What a dizzying,
intoxicating fragrance lilacs have! I wonder if perfume could
set a man drunk. Those apple trees now--why, what is that?"

Eric started up and listened. Across the mellow stillness,
mingled with the croon of the wind in the trees and the
flute-like calls of the robins, came a strain of delicious music,
so beautiful and fantastic that Eric held his breath in
astonishment and delight. Was he dreaming? No, it was real
music, the music of a violin played by some hand inspired with
the very spirit of harmony. He had never heard anything like it;
and, somehow, he felt quite sure that nothing exactly like it
ever had been heard before; he believed that that wonderful music
was coming straight from the soul of the unseen violinist, and
translating itself into those most airy and delicate and
exquisite sounds for the first time; the very soul of music, with
all sense and earthliness refined away.

It was an elusive, haunting melody, strangely suited to the time
and place; it had in it the sigh of the wind in the woods, the
eerie whispering of the grasses at dewfall, the white thoughts of
the June lilies, the rejoicing of the apple blossoms; all the