"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.
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