It was at Yelverly on a summer's evening, but not upon one of those bright evenings which I have described in another place. The weather had sadly changed, with all the mutability of temperature which manifests itself so strangely in England, as if for the purpose of affording a contrast to the firm and constant character of the people. The sky was covered with grey clouds, the wind was from the cold north-east, sweeping sorrowfully over the fields and through the hedge-rows round Yelverly; and that which had seemed sunshiny, rich, and beautiful, was now to the eye all cold, sad, and desolate. The cattle gathered themselves under the shelter of the hedges, the sheep drew close together, the birds sat motionless upon the boughs, and some wheeling flights of crows, high up in the sky, added to the autumnal-look which had so suddenly come over the world. Notwithstanding the inauspicious aspect of the afternoon, Juliet Carr had wandered forth with a shawl wrapped close over her fair bosom to keep out the rude touch of the blast, and her veil thrown over her head and face. Her heart was somewhat sad, as may well be supposed, for she had been suddenly separated, without the slightest expectation of being so, from him that she loved best on earth. But still, though her mind was not of a very sanguine or hopeful nature, and her feelings were as deep and keen as ever dwelt in woman's heart, yet she was no more than sad, for not one word had passed her father's lips to make her think he would absolutely disapprove of her union with Morley Ernstein. He had remained perfectly silent upon the subject: somewhat gloomy, indeed, but nothing more; and that gloominess Juliet thought might, perhaps, proceed from a feeling of indisposition, for the fatigues of the journey had brought on an attack of illness, which, though not alarming, was severe. To see him suffer, of course, had not lightened the load upon his daughter's heart; more especially as, at such moments, he repelled every effort to soothe and comfort him. Indeed, it was clear that, in sickness, he preferred being attended by any one else than Juliet; and the sight of her, whose appearance was hailed in the cottage of the poor as the visit of a consoling angel, seemed rather to affect Mr. Carr, in his hours of illness, with painful and unpleasant feelings. It was not that he was cross or morose with her, for it was scarcely possible for any human being to be so; and, on the contrary, he was usually much more gentle with her than with any other person, seeming to pay a sort of deferential respect to her opinion, which sometimes surprised even Juliet herself. But when he was ill, he had always some excuse ready for sending her away, and this was so marked that she perceived it, and perceived it with sorrow.