dreamily gazing into the shadowy depths of the pool beside her.

"Who wrote it?" inquired Gladys.

"I've forgotten," replied Migwan. "I learned it once in Literature, a
long time ago."

Both girls were silent, gazing meditatively into the pool, like
_ gazing into a future-revealing crystal, each absorbed in her
own day dreams. They were startled by the sound of a clear, musical
piping, coming apparently from the tangle of bushes behind them. Now
faint, now louder, it swelled and died away on the breeze, now fairly
startling in its joyousness, now plaintive as the wind sighing among
the reeds in some lonely spot after nightfall; alluring, thrilling,
mocking by turns; elusive as the strains of fairy pipers; utterly
ravishing in its sweetness.

Migwan and Gladys lifted their heads and looked at each other in wonder.

"Pipes of Pan!" exclaimed Migwan, and both girls glanced around, half
expecting to see the graceful form of a faun gliding toward them among
the trees. Nothing was to be seen, but the piping went on, merrily as
before, rising, falling, swelling, dying away in the distance, breaking
out again at near hand.

"Oh, what _is_ it?" cried Gladys. "Is it a bird?"

"It can't be a bird," replied Migwan, "it's a _tune--sort_ of a tune.
No, I wouldn't exactly call it a tune, either, but it's different from a
bird call. It sounds like pipes--fairy pipes--Pipes of Pan. Oh-h-h! Just