there was no sound of high little voices
anywhere.

Were they at church, then?

They couldn't be indoors on such a beautiful day.

Miles whistled softly, knowing that if William were anywhere within
hearing, that would bring him at the double.

But no joyfully galumphing William appeared to welcome him.

He had no intention of ringing to inquire. No, he'd take a good look
round first, before he went back to hang about outside the church.

It was pleasant in the Wren's End garden.

Presently he went down the broad central path of the walled garden, with
borders of flowers and beds of vegetables. Half-way down, in the
sunniest, warmest place, he came upon a hammock slung between an
apple-tree not quite out and a pear-tree that was nearly over, and a
voice from the hammock called sleepily: "Is that you, Earley? I wish
you'd pick up my cigarette case for me; it's fallen into the lavender
bush just below."

"Yes, Miss," a voice answered that was certainly not Earley's.

Meg leaned out of the hammock to look behind her.

"Hullo!" she said. "Why are you not in church? I can't get up because
I'm a prisoner on _parole_. Short of a thunderstorm nothing is to move
me from this hammock till Miss Ross comes back."

Miles stood in the pathway looking down at the muffled figure in the
hammock. There was little to be seen of Meg save her rumpled, hatless
head. She was much too economical of her precious caps to waste one in a
hammock. She had slept for nearly two hours, then Hannah roused her with
a cup of soup. She was drowsy and warm and comfortable, and her usually
pale cheeks were almost as pink as the apple-blossom buds above her
head.

"Do you want to sleep? Or may I stop and talk to you a bit?" Miles
asked, when he had found the somewhat battered cigarette case and
restored it to her.

"As I'm very plainly off duty, I suppose you may stay and talk--if I
fall asleep in the middle you must not be offended. You'll find plenty
of chairs in the tool house."

When Miles returned Meg had lit her cigarette, and he begged a light
from her.

What little hands she had! How fine-grained and delicate her skin!

Again he felt that queer lump in his throat at the absurd, sweet pathos
of her.

He placed his chair where he had her full in view, not too near, yet
comfortably so for conversation. Jan had swung the hammock very high,
and Meg looked down at Miles over the edge.

"It is unusual," she said, "to find a competen