Valancy poured tea out of Barney’s little battered old pewter teapot of incredible age. She had not even a set of dishes — only Barney’s mismatched chipped bits — and a dear, big, pobby old jug of robin’s-egg blue.

After the meal was over they would sit there and talk for hours — or sit and say nothing, in all the languages of the world, Barney pulling away at his pipe, Valancy dreaming idly and deliciously, gazing at the far-off hills beyond Mistawis where the spires of firs came out against the sunset. The moonlight would begin to silver the Mistawis. Bats would begin to swoop darkly against the pale, western gold. The little waterfall that came down on the high bank not far away would, by some whim of the wildwood gods, begin to look like a wonderful white woman beckoning through the