II.

MY HOME RETURN.

When the stage-coach had gained the summit of the hill, I alighted to
perform the small remainder of my journey on foot. There had not been
a more delicious afternoon than this in all the train of summer, the air
being a sunny perfume, made up of balm and warmth, and gentle
brightness. The oak and walnut trees over my head retained their deep
masses of foliage, and the grass, though for months the pasturage of
stray cattle, had been revived with the freshness of early June by the
autumnal rains of the preceding week. The garb of autumn, indeed,
resembled that of spring. Dandelions and butterflies were sprinkled
along the roadside like drops of brightest gold in greenest grass, and a
star-shaped little flower of blue, with a golden centre. In a rocky
spot, and rooted under the stone walk, there was one wild rose-bush
bearing three roses very faintly tinted, but blessed with a spicy
fragrance. The same tokens would have announced that the year was
brightening into the glow of summer. There were violets too, though few
and pale ones. But the breath of September was diffused through the
mild air, and became perceptible, too thrillingly for my enfeebled
frame, whenever a little breeze shook out the latent coolness.

"I was standing on the hill at the entrance of my native village, whence
I had looked back to bid farewell, and forward to the pale mist-bow that
overarched my path, and was the omen of my fortunes. How I had
misinterpreted that augury, the ghost of hope, with none of hope's
bright hues! Nor could I deem that all its portents were yet