Miranda
slept in the orchard, lying in a long chair beneath the apple-tree. Her book
had fallen into the grass, and her finger still seemed to point at the sentence
"Ce pays est vraiment un des coins du monde ou le rire des filles eclate
le mieux . . ." as if she had fallen asleep just there. The opals on her
finger flushed green, flushed rosy, and again flushed orange as the sun, oozing
through the apple-trees, filled them. Then, when the breeze blew, her purple
dress rippled like a flower attached to a stalk; the grasses nodded; and the
white butterfly came blowing this way and that just above her face. Four feet
in the air over her head the apples hung. “The Orchard”
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