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It may have been imagination, but to Miles it seemed that Nature had put on festal attire in honor of May. Surely the birds had never sung so lustily, surely the sunlight was brighter, the leaves greener, the sky bluer than ever before. The world was in May Day mood and his heart was in tune.

He reached the glade early. The shadows were still long across the grass and the dew drenched his ankles. The easel and stool stood where he had left them, and he sat down and filled his pipe and waited. Bistre trotted busily about through the long

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