brown leaves that drifted across her path, though she was not thinking
of the leaves. She felt them as she felt the breath of fall in the
puff of air that drifted the leaves: but she did not put what she felt
into words. So seldom do the things that women feel get themselves put
into words.

The young woman had chosen a street that led in the direction of her
home through one of the city's smaller parks, and, as she went, the
people she met turned often to look after her for she was good to look
at. She walked strongly but with a step as light as it was firm and
free; and, breathing deeply with the healthful exercise, her cheeks
were flushed with rosy color, her eyes shone, her countenance--her
every glance and movement--betrayed a strong and perfect womanhood--a
womanhood that, rightly understood, is wealth that the race and age
can ill afford to squander.

Coming to the park, she walked more slowly and, after a little, seated
herself on a bench to watch the squirrels that were playing nearby.
The foliage had already lost its summer freshness though here and
there a tree or bush made brave attempt to retain its garb of green.
Not a few brown leaves whirled helplessly about--the first of
unnumbered myriads that soon would be offered by the dying summer in
tribute to winter's conquering power. The sun was still warm but the
air had in it a subtle flavor that seemed a blending of the coming
season with the season that was almost gone.

Near the farther entrance to the little park, a carpenter was
repairing the roof of a house and, from where she sat, the woman could
see the long ladder resting against the eaves. A boy with his shepherd
dog came romping along the walk under the trees as irresponsible as