"Maidens," said Joscelyn, "here is that man come again."

Maids' memories are longer than men's. At all events, the milkmaids
knew instantly to whom she referred, although nearly a month had
passed since his coming.

"Has he his lute with him?" asked little Joan.

"He has. And he is giving cake to the ducks; they take it from his
hand. Man, go away immediately!"

Martin Pippin propped his elbows on the little gate, and looked
smiling into the orchard, all pink and white blossom. The trees that
had been longest in bloom were white cascades of flower, others
there were flushed like the cheek of a sleeping child, and some were
still studded with rose-red buds. The grass was high and full of
spotted orchis, and tall wild parsley spread its nets of lace almost
abreast of the lowest boughs of blossom. So that the milkmaids stood
embraced in meeting flowers, waist-deep in the orchard growth: all
gowned in pink lawn with loose white sleeves, and their faces
flushed it may have been with the pink linings to their white
bonnets, or with the evening rose in the west, or with I know not
what.

"Go away!" they cried at the intruder. "Go away!"

"My rose-white maidens," said Martin, "will you not let me into your
orchard? For the stars are rising with the dew, and the hour is at