, the campions in the
cornland, and the yellow vetchling that ran up the hillside towards
one of the wooded "islands" peculiar to the center of Somerset.

Cynthia listened, and, if she marveled, betrayed no hint of surprise
that a chauffeur should have such a store of the woodman's craft.
Medenham, aware only of a rapt audience of one, threw disguise to the
breeze created by the car when the pace quickened. He told of the
Glastonbury Thorn, and how it was brought to the west country by no
less a gardener than Joseph of Arimathea, and how St. Patrick was born
in the Isle of Avallon, so called because its apple-orchards bore
golden fruit, and how the very name of Glastonbury is derived from the
crystal water that hemmed the isle----

"Please let me intrude one little question," murmured the girl. "I am
very ignorant of some things. What has 'Avallon' got to do with
'apples'?"

"Ha!" cried Medenham, warming to his subject and retarding speed
again, "that opens up a wide field. In Celtic mythology Avallon is
Ynys yr Afallon, the Island of Apples. It is the Land of the Blessed,
where Morgana holds her court. Great heroes like King Arthur and Ogier
le Dane were carried there after death, and, as apples were the only
first-rate fruit known to the northern nations, a place where they
grew in luscious abundance came to be regarded as the soul-kingdom.
Merlin says that fairyland is full of apple trees----"

"I believe it is," cried Cynthia, nudging his arm and pointing to an
orchard in full bloom.

Mrs. Devar could hear little and understand less of what they were
saying; but the nudge was eloquent; her steel-blue eyes narrowed, and
she thrust her face between them.

"We mustn't dawdle on the road, Fitzroy. Bristol is still a long way
off, and we have so much to see--Glastonbury, Wells, Cheddar."

Though Cynthia was vexed by the interruption she did not show it.
Indeed, she was aware of her companion's strange reiteration of
the towns to be visited, since Mrs. Devar had already admitted a
special weakness in geography, and during the trip from Brighton to
Bournemouth was quite unable to name a town, a county, or a landmark.
But the queer thought of a moment was dispelled by sight of the ruins
of St. Dunstan's monastery appearing above a low wall. In front of the
broken arches and tottering walls grew some apple trees so old and
worn that no blossom decked their gnarled branches. Unbidden tears
glistened in the girl's eye