“—October, heaven’s delicious breath, When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek sun grows brief, And the year smiles as drawing near its death.” BRYANT. It was near the close of a day late in the month of October. The level rays of the setting sun glanced across the green waters of the bay, tinting their rippling waves with emerald and jet—across the brown waste of the heath, mottling its rugged surface with gold and bronze upon the decayed edifice of the old Hall, painting its rusty walls in strongly contrasted colors of red and black, while its tall windows flashed back in lines of shining light the dazzling beams—and upon the distant forest whose variegated foliage reflected in topaz and in ruby light the day’s declining glory. It was a still, refulgent scene, the good night smile of nature. Presently the still life of the landscape was enlivened by two equestrian figures, descending the slope of the heath from the Hall, while their shadows stretched lengthening behind them over the dry and burnished turf. The figure on the right hand side was that of a youth of some eighteen years, clad in the undress uniform of a midshipman—whom on near view we recognise as our old acquaintance, Gusty Wilde May. By his side rode a beautiful girl of about fourteen years of age, in a graceful riding habit of blue cloth. She was rather full formed, very fair, with deep blue eyes, and wavy hair of pale gold floating about a forehead of transparent whiteness, with a soft, gentle manner, and a pleading air in the curve of her rosy lips and the downward sweep of her snowy eyelids. The youth and the maiden each rode a bay horse. They—the youth and maiden—not the bay horses—were conversing in a low tone as they ambled over the heath— “And this is all that has occurred during my long absence of three years.” “All, Augustus.” “Rosalia, what do you suppose were my emotions as I sailed down the bay this morning towards Churchill Point?” “Oh, I suppose your heart was full of happiness!” “No—every mile added more anxiety to the weight oppressing my heart as I drew near home, reflecting on the many and dreadful changes that might have passed over those I loved in these long three years, and _now_ I am happy, for, thank God,” said he, raising his cap reverently, “nothing but agreeable changes have passed over Grove Cottage and its inmates. I find you the sweetest little turtle-dove that ever folded its wings in a nest, domesticated with my mother, and forming a large portion of her happiness. I find my dear mother at thirty-five looking young and fresh as Hebe—and about—I am very much inclined to think—_tell_ me, Rosalia, _is_ my mother going to be married to Mr. Buncombe?” “I think so, Augustus—does that disturb you?”