woods. The color deepens in the west; the pines grow black against it;
the rich brown of the oak leaves seems to glow everywhere in the last
soft light; and the mystery that never sleeps long in the woods begins
to rustle again in the thickets. You are busy with your own thoughts,
seeing nothing, till a flash of yellow passes before your eyes, and a
fox stands in the path before you, one foot uplifted, the fluffy brush
swept aside in graceful curve, the bright eyes looking straight into
yours--nay, looking through them to read the intent which gives the
eyes their expression. That is always the way with a fox; he seems to
be looking at your thoughts.

Surprise, eagerness, a lively curiosity are all in your face on the
instant; but the beautiful creature before you only draws himself
together with quiet self-possession. He lifts his head slightly; a
superior look creeps into his eyes; he seems to be speaking. Listen--

"You are surprised?"--this with an almost imperceptible lift of his
eyebrows, which reminds you somehow that it is really none of your
affair. "O, I frequently use this road in attending to some matters
over in the West Parish. To be sure, we are socially incompatible; we
may even regard each other as enemies, unfortunately. I did take your
chickens last week; but yesterday your unmannerly dogs hunted me. At
least we may meet and pass as gentlemen. You are the older; allow me
to give you the path."

Dropping his head again, he turns to the left, English fashion, and
trots slowly past you. There is no hurry; not the shadow of suspicion
or uneasiness. His eyes are cast down; his brow wrinkled, as if in
deep thought; already he seems to have forgotten your existence. You
watch him curiously as he reenters the path behind you and disappears