this mellow August morning. The dust was deep; the goldenrod waved its
imperial plumes, making the humble waysides gorgeous; the river chattered and
sparkled till it met the logs at the Brier Neighborhood, and then, lapsing
into silence, flowed steadily under them till it found a vent for its spirits
in the dashing and splashing of the falls.

Haying was over; logging was to begin that day; then harvesting; then wood-
cutting; then eternal successions of ploughing, sowing, reaping, haying,
logging, harvesting, and so on, to the endless end of his days. Here and there
a red or a yellow branch, painted only yesterday, caught his eye and made him
shiver. He was not ready for winter; his heart still craved the summer it had
missed.

Hello! What was that? Corn-stalks prone on the earth? Sign torn down and lying
flat in the grass? Blinds open, fire in the chimney?

He leaped from the wagon, and, flinging the reins to Alcestis Crambry, said,
"Stay right here out of sight, and don't you move till I call you!" And
striding up the green pathway, he flung open the kitchen door.

A forest of corn waving in the doorway at the back, morning-glories clambering
round and round the window-frames, the table with shining white cloth, the
kettle humming and steaming, something bubbling in a pan on the stove, the
fire throwing out sweet little gleams of welcome through the open damper. All
this was taken in with one incredulous, rapturous twinkle of an eye; but
something else, too: Rose of all roses, Rose of the river, Rose of the world,
standing behind a chair, with her hand pressed against her heart, her lips
parted, her breath coming and going! She was glowing like a jewel--glowing
with the extraordinary brilliancy that emotion gives to some women. She used
to be happy in a gay, sparkling way, like the shallow part of the stream as it