The autumn disposes us to melancholy; it brings reverie and reflection, not to him who lives in the city, detained in the vortex of the world by the necessities of business or pleasure, but to the man of the fields who can contemplate each day the successive changes in the face of nature. Not without emotion does he look upon the forest, whose black, skeleton-like trees seem to be in mourning for the spring; if he walks along a path but lately shaded by dense foliage, if he seeks the thicket where he was wont to rest during the heat of the day, he sees naught but dry branches, often broken by the poor man's hand. The forest is less dark than in summer, for the sunlight finds its way in on all sides. But that brightness, far from embellishing it, robs it of all its charm; one regrets the dark, mysterious paths, through which it is so pleasant to wander in the season of love. As he watches the approach of the frost and snow, as he contemplates the effects of the winter's cold, man, always buoyed up by hope, says to himself: "The spring will come again; I shall see once more my leafy lanes, my lawns, and my shrubs." The spring comes again--but many men do not see it! Sister Anne observed the change in the season only because it emphasized the length of time that had elapsed since Frédéric left her. The unhappy child could no longer count the days; their number was too great. However, hope had not vanished from her heart; she could not believe that her lover intended to abandon her forever; sometimes, she imagined that he had ceased to live, and then the blackest despair took possession of her thoughts. When that idea forced itself upon her, life seemed to be only one long agony. Could she live on, unsustained by the hope of seeing her lover? Often she longed to die. But she was soon to be a mother; that thought made her cling to life once more; something told her that she must live for her child. It was a very long time since she had been to the village. An old shepherd, who went back and forth through the woods, was in the habit of leaving every day, at the foot of a tree, the loaf of rye bread required by the occupants of the cabin, and always found there, in exchange, a large pitcher filled with milk. This bread, with milk and fresh eggs, was all that the two poor women ate in winter. When Sister Anne had finished preparing the meal, and had given the old woman all that she required, she drove her goats to the hilltop, and seated herself at the foot of her mother's tree. Despite the cold, which was beginning to be severe, the girl did not fail to go thither a single day. Wrapped in a wretched woollen cloak, half worn out, she defied the rigor of the season, although the garment was but little protection to her; her goats, finding nothing on the hill to browse upon, huddled at her feet; and Sister Anne, her features pinched and worn by her condition and her sufferings, presented only too faithfully the image of poverty and sorrow.