Indian summer lay drowsily over the land.

It had come late that season, but its rare beauty compensated for its tardiness.

Its golden mellowness permeating the hazy air, had also, it seems, crept into the heart of Dorian Trent.

The light coating of frost which each morning lay on the grass, had by noon vanished, and now the earth was warm and dry.
Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great haste with his work.

He did not urge his horses, for they also seemed imbued with the languidness of the season.