University of Virginia Library

1. I.

We were sitting by the open window, cousin Elise and I,
for though it was late in November the evening was unusually
mild: we were sitting by the window that overlooks one of
the crookedest streets of the city, not looking much to the
crowds that passed below, nor ladies in plumes and furs, nor
gentlemen with slender canes and nicely trimmed whiskers, nor
ragged urchins crying the evening papers, nor splendid equipages,
nor any of the other various sights that sometimes interest
careless observers, but watching the bright clouds that over
the distant water wrapt the sun in a golden fleece for his nightly
repose. The long reach of woods that is beneath was hidden
by dense masses of blue smoke, in which the red basement of
the sky seemed to bury itself. A portion of the great forest
of masts that borders a part of the city was visible from our
window, and now and then a black scow moved slowly over
the waves, and a white sail gleamed for a moment, and was
gone.

Autumn, especially an autumn twilight, is always to me a
melancholy time; even with the ripe nuts dropping at my feet,
or with my lap full of bright orchard fruits, I am more lonely
then than when winter whistles through his numb fingers and the
drowsy snow blows in great drifts across the flowers. When
the transition is once made, when the fire is once brightly glowing,
and the circle, wide or narrow, drawn about it, and the song
of the cricket well attuned, the undefinable heaviness that lay
on my heart all the fall, is gone, blown away with the mists.
I had a playmate whose happiness was dearer to me than my

own. My lost one, my sister—how often from the little sunshine
that has been my portion, I have turned aside to think of
thee, on whose life the blight of sin had scarcely fallen, ere
from the rippled length of thy dark tresses we took the flowers—trusting
thy feet to the dark.

And when swart November comes round, and the winds
moan along the hills, and pluck from the withering woods the
last leaves, something of the old sorrow comes back. A
shadowy host, born of the fading glories, stands between me
and the light, and as I gaze, sweeps in a pale procession toward
the tomb.

Looking up from the reverie in which I had fallen, I saw that
cousin Elsie was wrapt under the wing of a darker sorrow than
mine.

I said, laying my hand lightly and half-playfull on her's. But
as I did so, the tears, which only a strong effort had kept back,
dropt hot and fast. I left her for a moment, and affected to
busy myself at the fire, for, though the window was open, the
grate was well heaped, more for the sake of its genial glow,
than because any warmth was needed; and when I returned
and seated myself at her side, the tears were gone, and a smile
that seemed even sadder than tears, hovered on her lips.

I said something about the chilliness, as I lowered the sash,
and pointed to the first star that stood blushing in a rift of
faded cloud. My observations required no answer, for I talked
rather for than to her. Seeing this, she seated herself on a low
stool at my feet, and laying her head on my knees, said in a
manner she intended to be gay—“You need not affect unconsciousness,
for you are wondering what I am thinking about,
even though you do talk of the stars.”

I acknowledged the truth, and she added,—“Will it amuse
you to hear my thoughts?”

I replied that it would; and she gave me a reminiscence
of our life at Clovernook, where my heart always wanders
from the city, when I am in no cheerful mood.