Page:Conflict (1927).pdf/315



walked along the country road carrying a sheaf of flaming leaves. It was late October. The air was full of the smell of fall—apples and wild grapes, fallen leaves, smouldering fires—and full too this afternoon of a golden glow that tinged the rolling pastures, distant hills, and sky beyond, as if the sun was shining through amber glass. Sheilah breathed deep of the clear, apricot-colored air, rich and thick and sparkling like a liqueur, she thought, or some rare nectar, distilled from many fruits—the essence of summer, the loveliness of all the days from May to October, condensed and concentrated.

There was no wind stirring. She stopped beneath a motionless beech tree for a moment, and gazed up into its canary-yellow foliage. Several of the leaves floated languidly down upon her, and made tiny soft sounds as they touched the ground. A little bird of some sort chirped twice on a hidden branch. Adistant chipmunk chattered. Sheilah smiled. Only one whose heart is very calm and quiet can hear such little sounds. As she swung down the hill that led into the town she observed the various roadside signs and symbols of the New England autumn—piles