The surrounding hills seen from the parsonage-balcony took on subtle changes of tint; the patches of pine and evergreen showed out more and more distinctly; the over-ripe grass in the valley lay in lines of fragrant haycocks.
Every day, in the garden, a greater number of red and yellow leaves drifted about the paths, or scattered themselves over the flower-beds, or floated on the surface of the fountain-basin.

Little brown birds hopped backward and forward among the twigs, with quick, jerking tails and sideway, speculative heads; or upon the ground, pecking at it here and there with their little bills, as if under the impression that it was summer's grave, and they might chance to dig her up again.

But once in a while they got discouraged, and took a sudden, rustling flight to the roof-tree of the barn, seemingly half inclined to continue on indefinitely southward.

Then, a reluctance to leave the old place coming over them, they would dip back again on their elastic little wings, to hop and peck anew.
Bressant and Sophie were sitting one afternoon--it was in the first days of September, and within less than a week of the time when they might begin to expect Cornelia--upon the little rustic bench beside the fountain.

Their conversation had filtered softly into silence, and only the flop-flop of the weak-backed little spout continued to prattle to the stillness.
"I don't like it!" exclaimed Bressant, stirring his foot impatiently.
"I'd rather put my whole life into one strong, resistless shooting upward, even if it lasted only a minute." "The poor little fountain is happy enough," said well-balanced Sophie.
"To do any thing there must sometimes be a heat and fury in the blood; or a whirl and passion in the brain.