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Rh At half-past ten I say good-night, and take my bed-room candle thankfully; but oh! there is little rest for me, for does not a bitter task await me on the morrow? and in the long days to come is there so much as a shadow of any pleasant thing that is likely to befall me?

o'clock struck ten minutes ago; but I am not at the rendezvous. I am loitering slowly along the meadows that lead to the running brook, and I am possessed by a keen overmastering inclination to turn round and run home again as fast as ever I can pelt. As yet, however, I have not forfeited my claim to valour, and as I go along, scarcely dragging one foot after the other, I look idly about me. This last September day is very different to that one little more than two months ago, when I wore my wreath of flowers, and later when I told George, with such grand triumph, that I was "going away." Then the world was all quivering lights and dancing shadows. Nature was gay and debonnair with her full summer's smile, now she seems to have unfolded her arms to let autumn's chill breath steal over her warm beautiful breast. The sunlight does not brood over the earth as it did then; rather it seems woven into a dainty network that hovers over the distant woods, and through the still clear air, the far-off beaches gleam like jewels of gold and amber. Over all there is that nameless silence that spring and summer with their warm bustling life never know, and the few remaining flowers seem to be dying sorrowfully, while the fallen and falling leaves cast their faint impalpable scent of decay abroad. And now my heavy feet have brought me