Under the Big Dipper

“Have you seen the orchard and the enchanted bower of Kittanah, the Indian Maiden who dwelt here more than two hundred years ago? No? It’s right round the bend of this road, less than a minute’s walk, and really well worth a visit. Shall we go?”

His playful insistence and her own desire to efface the impression of her cool reception of him conquered her indecision. She turned with him along the road to where the orchard was situated.

Gnarled old fruit trees laden with red, green and speckled apples, deep grass that clung to ankles, weeds of unusual size and luxuriance, and all against a dense clump of birches as background.

Within these birches were flat boulders covered with lichen and small tufts of living green—“The Indian bower, Miss Barton; behold the throne of Kittanah!”

It was a pretty spot, and Helène felt no regret that she had come. Van Dusen drew out his handkerchief,

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