So I hurriedly dressed and hastened down to tell him before he

went. I was joined on the stairs by the Story Girl, who said she
had wakened and, not feeling like going to sleep again, thought

she might as well get up.
"I had such a funny dream last night," she said. "I dreamed that

I heard a voice calling me from away down in Uncle Stephen's Walk--
'Sara, Sara, Sara,' it kept calling. I didn't know whose it was,

and yet it seemed like a voice I knew. I wakened up while it was
calling, and it seemed so real I could hardly believe it was a

dream. It was bright moonlight, and I felt just like getting up
and going out to the orchard. But I knew that would be silly and

of course I didn't go. But I kept on wanting to and I couldn't
sleep any more. Wasn't it queer?"

When Uncle Alec had gone I proposed a saunter to the farther end
of the orchard, where I had left a book the preceding evening. A

young mom was walking rosily on the hills as we passed down Uncle
Stephen's Walk, with Paddy trotting before us. High overhead was

the spirit-like blue of paling skies; the east was a great arc of
crystal, smitten through with auroral crimsonings; just above it

was one milk-white star of morning, like a pearl on a silver sea.
A light wind of dawn was weaving an orient spell.

"It's lovely to be up as early as this, isn't it?" said the Story
Girl. "The world seems so different just at sunrise, doesn't it?

It makes me feel just like getting up to see the sun rise every
morning of my life after this. But I know I won't. I'll likely

sleep later than ever tomorrow morning. But I wish I could."
"The Awkward Man and Miss Reade are going to have a lovely day for

their wedding," I said.
"Yes, and I'm so glad. Beautiful Alice deserves everything good.

Why, Bev--why, Bev! Who is that in the hammock?"
I looked. The hammock was swung under the two end trees of the

Walk. In it a man was lying, asleep, his head pillowed on his
overcoat. He was sleeping easily, lightly, and wholesomely. He

had a pointed brown beard and thick wavy brown hair. His cheeks
were a dusky red and the lashes of his closed eyes were as long

and dark and silken as a girl's. He wore a light gray suit, and
on the slender white hand that hung down over the hammock's edge

was a spark of diamond fire.
It seemed to me that I knew his face, although assuredly I had

never seen him before. While I groped among vague speculations
the Story Girl gave a queer, choked little cry. The next moment

she had sprung over the intervening space, dropped on her knees by
the hammock, and flung her arms about the man's neck.

"Father! Father!" she cried, while I stood, rooted to the ground
in my amazement.

The sleeper stirred and opened two large, exceedingly brilliant
hazel eyes. For a moment he gazed rather blankly at the brown-

curled young lady who was embracing him. Then a most delightful
smile broke over his face; he sprang up and caught her to his

heart.
"Sara--Sara--my little Sara! To think didn't know you at first

glance! But you are almost a woman. And when I saw you last you
were just a little girl of eight. My own little Sara!"

"Father--father--sometimes I've wondered if you were ever coming
back to me," I heard the Story Girl say, as I turned and scuttled

up the Walk, realizing that I was not wanted there just then and
would be little missed. Various emotions and speculations

possessed my mind in my retreat; but chiefly did I feel a sense of
triumph in being the bearer of exciting news.

"Aunt Janet, Uncle Blair is here," I announced breathlessly at the
kitchen door.

Aunt Janet, who was kneading her bread, turned round and lifted
floury hands. Felicity and Cecily, who were just entering the

kitchen, rosy from slumber, stopped still and stared at me.
"Uncle who?" exclaimed Aunt Janet.

"Uncle Blair--the Story Girl's father, you know. He's here."
"WHERE?"

"Down in the orchard. He was asleep in the hammock. We found him there."
"Dear me!" said Aunt Janet, sitting down helplessly. "If that

isn't like Blair! Of course he couldn't come like anybody else. I
wonder," she added in a tone unheard by anyone else save myself,

"I wonder if he has come to take the child away."
My elation went out like a snuffed candle. I had never thought of

this. If Uncle Blair took the Story Girl away would not life
become rather savourless on the hill farm? I turned and followed

Felicity and Cecily out in a very subdued mood.
Uncle Blair and the Story Girl were just coming out of the

orchard. His arm was about her and hers was on his shoulder.
Laughter and tears were contending in her eyes. Only once before--

when Peter had come back from the Valley of the Shadow--had I
seen the Story Girl cry. Emotion had to go very deep with her ere

it touched the source of tears. I had always known that she loved
her father passionately, though she rarely talked of him,

understanding that her uncles and aunts were not whole-heartedly
his friends.

But Aunt Janet's welcome was cordial enough, though a trifle
flustered. Whatever thrifty, hard-working farmer folk might think

of gay, Bohemian Blair Stanley in his absence, in his presence
even they liked him, by the grace of some winsome, lovable quality

in the soul of him. He had "a way with him"--revealed even in the
manner with which he caught staid Aunt Janet in his arms, swung

her matronly form around as though she had been a slim schoolgirl,
and kissed her rosy cheek.

"Sister o' mine, are you never going to grow old?" he said. "Here
you are at forty-five with the roses of sixteen--and not a gray

hair, I'll wager."
"Blair, Blair, it is you who are always young," laughed Aunt

Janet, not ill pleased. "Where in the world did you come from?
And what is this I hear of your sleeping all night in the

hammock?"
"I've been painting in the Lake District all summer, as you know,"

answered Uncle Blair, "and one day I just got homesick to see my
little girl. So I sailed for Montreal without further delay. I

got here at eleven last night--the station-master's son drove me
down. Nice boy. The old house was in darkness and I thought it

would be a shame to rouse you all out of bed after a hard day's
work. So I decided that I would spend the night in the orchard.

It was moonlight, you know, and moonlight in an old orchard is one
of the few things left over from the Golden Age."

"It was very foolish of you," said practical Aunt Janet. "These
September nights are real chilly. You might have caught your

death of cold--or a bad dose of rheumatism."
"So I might. No doubt it was foolish of me," agreed Uncle Blair

gaily. "It must have been the fault, of the moonlight.
Moonlight, you know, Sister Janet, has an intoxicating quality.

It is a fine, airy, silver wine, such as fairies may drink at
their revels, unharmed of it; but when a mere mortal sips of it,

it mounts straightway to his brain, to the undoing of his daylight
common sense. However, I have got neither cold nor rheumatism, as

a sensible person would have done had he ever been lured into
doing such a non-sensible thing; there is a special Providence for

us foolish folk. I enjoyed my night in the orchard; for a time I
was companioned by sweet old memories; and then I fell asleep

listening to the murmurs of the wind in those old trees yonder.