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grass, sneezing and coughing, in search of the adventure that never befell.


The tobacco in the bowl burned down and gave place to new. The sun rose higher and higher. The shadows shortened and deepened. The song of the birds died away by degrees as noontime approached. But the Princess did not come. At eleven o'clock Miles gave up hope and, carrying his easel and stool and box, returned disappointedly to the studio. Hunter had just returned from a sketching expedition and was studying the result of his labor when Miles entered.

"Hello," he said. "Let's see the canvas."

"I didn't work this morning," answered Miles, dejectedly. "The light wasn't good." Hunter chuckled.

"Too bad," he said. And then,

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