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IV


Nature repeated herself the next morning. There was the same blue sky, the same pile of downy white clouds in the west, the same ethereal gold flooding the April land, the same stillness, as though Nature held finger to lip. And, as before, the air was sweet with the fragrance of apple-blossoms.

Miles watched Hunter Brough seat himself in the Inn carryall, a canvas wrapped in newspapers held carefully on his knees, and disappear in the direction of the railroad. So did Bistre. Bistre had a philosophy of his

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