Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs.
Browne's. The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir.
Now and then a yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from
no outward violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit
and then ceased. Looking down on the distant sheltered woods, they were
gorgeous in orange and crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign
of the decaying and dying year. Even without an inward sorrow, there was a
grand solemnity in the season which impressed the mind, and hushed it into
tranquil thought. Frank rode slowly along, and quietly dismounted at the
old horse-mount, beside which there was an iron bridle-ring fixed in
the gray stone wall. He saw the casement of the parlor-window open, and
Maggie's head bent down over her work. She looked up as he entered the
court, and his footsteps sounded on the flag-walk. She came round and
opened the door. As she stood in the door-way, speaking, he was struck by
her resemblance to some old painting. He had seen her young, calm face,
shining out with great peacefulness, and the large, grave, thoughtful eyes,
giving the character to the features which otherwise they might, from their
very regularity, have wanted. Her brown dress had the exact tint which a
painter would have admired. The slanting mellow sunlight fell upon her as
she stood; and the vine-leaves, already frost-tinted, made a rich, warm
border, as they hung over the old house-door.

"Mamma is not well; she is gone to lie down. How are you? How is Mr.
Buxton?"

"We are both pretty well; quite well, in fact, as far as regards health.
May I come in? I want to talk to you, Maggie!"

She opened the little parlor-door, and they went in; but for a time they
were both silent. They could not speak of her who was with them, present