Early frosts in October turned the maples into pillars of fire; followed a long Indian summer, hazy, even-footed, thoughtful days; as if after making ready this ceremonial purple and red and gold, gold brown of the meadows, blue and gold of aster and golden-rod by roadsides and meadow edges, veiled purple of the sweet fern in high pastures, the year remembered that it was not a pageantry of entry and advance, but of departure, and walked after the banners in recessional mood. In November red and yellow leaves had flickered past the windows and were raked into heaps on the village green. Helen kicked through the leaves, scattering them with a dry rustle. "I'm as fit as can be, Morgan." "Don't jump the fence." "I hadn't thought of it. It's the very thing." "Wait." She stopped and looked at him. "Better not," said Morgan, dryly. Helen made a face, put one foot on the low rail of the picket fence, jumped and plunged through the lilacs, picked up her hat and swung into the path. Morgan stood still outside the gate. "Then you'll have to come out again and go through." His yellow eyebrows met over his eyes. Helen flushed, hesitated--"Don't be an idiot," and then laughed. "I'll come if you don't mind my thinking you're an idiot." "I don't mind your saying you think so." She came outside the gate, looking interested. Morgan leaned his back to its post and smiled approval on Windless Mountain. "Why not?" "Oh, because you don't think so. You think I want you to do what I tell you. That's very true; I do. Why shouldn't you?" The question involved a series of other questions, linked and secret. Helen fell to looking, too, at Windless Mountain, which seemed to be brooding as well over its constitutional phenomena, whose causes were ages ago and deep in the earth, its relations with other creatures such as winds, clouds, the regular and the drifting stars. She did do as Morgan said, whenever he said anything; at least, she had almost always. When one was Morgan and not a girl, and seven years older, and able to dare all things and do them--(to carry a person on his shoulder miles, for instance, across the Cattle Ridge, together with the game-bag, when a person was tired, and begging not to be disgraced for a baby, and would not have shed a tear for a gold crown and a bushel of diamonds)--of course it was right and necessary that such a one should be worshipped and obeyed. Morgan broke into her thoughts. "Is it fixed when you go to Hamilton?" "After Christmas. Do you know, I believe uncle doesn't like you." "Oh, well, that's all right. I'll forgive him till he feels better."