It was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun struggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked brightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of the fair old town of Salisbury.

Like a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling¹ up the mind of an old man, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth and freshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the light; the scanty² patches of verdure in the hedges—where a few green twigs³ yet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the tyranny of nipping winds and early frosts—took heart and brightened up; the stream which had been dull and sullen⁴ all day long, broke out into a cheerful smile; the birds began to chirp⁵ and twitter on the naked boughs⁶, as though the hopeful creatures half believed that winter had gone by, and spring had come already. The vane upon the tapering⁷ spire⁸ of the old church glistened⁹ from its lofty station in sympathy with the general gladness; and from the ivy-shaded windows such gleams of light shone back upon the glowing sky, that it seemed as if the quiet buildings were the hoarding-place of twenty summers, and all their ruddiness and warmth were stored within.

Even those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the coming winter, graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged¹⁰ its livelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves, with which the ground was strewn, gave

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