It was bleak and drear. A raw, angry wind came out of the north and went raging through the woods, tearing the pretty clothing of the trees to pieces and rudely hurling the dust of the street in one's face. The sun got behind the clouds and in grief and dismay hid his face while this dismal looting went on unrebuked and unrestrained. But Nature is fickle, possibly because she is feminine. At all events, she can change both mind and conduct, and in short order. So ere long she came out of her November rage and sat down in still, mellow sunshine, and gathering her children about her, whispered beautiful stories in their ears; warmed them with her love and brightness; soothed their care-lined brows and filled their hearts with a sense of the nearness of the Giver of all good. It was on one of these days of Indian summer that Steve cut loose from work and started off on a tramp. He worked in town; he rested in country. He had put something like five miles of woodland and late fall meadow between himself and the distractions of city life, when looking adown a path that sloped gently to a brook he saw, sitting on a tree that lay athwart the stream and paddling her white feet in the sunny water, Nannie Branscome. His surprise robbed him of his reserve and he hastened to her. "Are you lost, Miss Branscome?" "Yes," she answered calmly. She still sat there, paddling her feet, with nothing of consternation or perplexity in her face or manner. All around her were the browns of a summer that had come and gone; heaps of dead leaves nestled close to the trees, mute witnesses of a lost beauty; while here and there an ox-eyed daisy glowed from out its somber company as a firefly shines through the dusk of twilight. In the midst of all this sat Nannie in her pretty suit trimmed in scarlet, looking like a bird of paradise amid a flock of sparrows and other soberly clad creatures. Indeed, she reminded one of a bird, with her head cocked on one side and her air--not bold, but saucy. Steve stood on the bank of the creek, perplexed for a moment. Then he asked with a slight smile: "What are you going to do about it?" The girl lowered her head a trifle and looked out at him from 'neath her curls, but she said nothing. "Let us go home, Miss Branscome." She continued looking at him without a word, and he returned her gaze as he stood there with a gentle dignity that had its effect upon her. "Barefooted?" she asked. "No. I am going to explore this creek for a little distance, and you can get ready while I'm gone." "But suppose my shoes and stockings have floated down the stream? What then?" Steve was dismayed, but he maintained his quiet air. "Suppose," persisted Nannie. Just then Steve caught a glimpse of a tiny shoe at the foot of a near tree. "And suppose," he said, "they have not, but are awaiting their owner over yonder?" Nannie laughed and looked around and Steve walked on. When he returned she was ready, and they set off together toward town.