T was a calm, bright morning in the beginning of September. The brilliancy of the summer tints had scarcely begun to fade, and the warm breath of the south breeze, as it wandered amongst the foliage of the trees, and played with the flickering shadows on the turf, gave no indication that the glory of the year was departing. But there is something in the knowledge that autumn is near, which will often cast a shade over the fair face of nature, from the contrast between the charm of its present beauty and the desolation which we feel to be at hand. Lovely though it may be, we View it with something of sadness mingled with our pleasure, for, like the last sweet smile of a cherished friend, we are conscious that, even while we are yet gazing, it is passing away from our sight.

And perhaps it was a thought such as this which caused the sigh that escaped from Edith Courtenay, as she stood at the library window of Elsham Priory, and looked upon the sunny prospect before her.