“Will you honour me by sleeping at my house, sir?” said the old man to whom she had been talking. “My farm is just over the brow of the hill, you know.” I had by this time recognised him, and I accepted his offer at once. “When may we look for you, sir?” he asked. “When shall you be home?” I rejoined. “This afternoon, sir. I have done my business already.” “Then I shall be with you in the evening, for I have nothing to keep me here.” “Will you take a seat in my gig?” “No, thank you. I have my own horse with me. You can take him in too, I dare say?” “With pleasure, sir.” We parted for the meantime. I rambled about the neighbourhood till it was time for an early dinner. Chapter XIX _Old Constancy._ The fog cleared off; and, as the hills began to throw long, lazy shadows, their only embraces across the wide valleys, I mounted and set out on the ride of a few miles which should bring me to my old acquaintance’s dwelling. I lingered on the way. All the old places demanded my notice. They seemed to say, “Here we are--waiting for you.” Many a tuft of harebells drew me towards the roadside, to look at them and their children, the blue butterflies, hovering over them; and I stopped to gaze at many a wild rosebush, with a sunset of its own roses. The sun had set to me, before I had completed half the distance. But there was a long twilight, and I knew the road well. My horse was an excellent walker, and I let him walk on, with the reins on his neck; while I, lost in a dream of the past, was singing a song of my own making, with which I often comforted my longing by giving it voice. The autumn winds are sighing Over land and sea; The autumn woods are dying Over hill and lea; And my heart is sighing, dying, Maiden, for thee. The autumn clouds are flying Homeless over me; The homeless birds are crying In the naked tree; And my heart is flying, crying, Maiden, to thee. My cries may turn to gladness, And my flying flee; My sighs may lose the sadness, Yet sigh on in me; All my sadness, all my gladness, Maiden, lost in thee.