icken, a
plateful of rice-pudding, and a large glass of sherry, I ventured to
propose to her that if the afternoon held up we should have a walk.

"I'm not equal to much fatigue," said she, with a languid air and a
heavy look about her eyes which I attributed to the luncheon; "but if
you like we'll go to the garden and the hothouses, and be back in time
for a cup of tea at five o'clock."

"Anything to get out of the house," was my reply, and forthwith I
rushed upstairs, two steps at a time, to put on my things; whilst my
aunt whispered to her daughter, loud enough for me to hear, "She
really ought to have been a man, Emmy; did you ever see such a hoyden
in your life?"

It was pleasant to get out even into that formal garden. The day was
soft and misty, such as one often finds it towards the close of
autumn--dark without being chill--and the withered leaves strewed the
earth in all the beauty of wholesome natural decay. Autumn makes some
people miserable; I confess it is the time of year that I like best.
Spring makes me cross if it's bad weather, and melancholy if it's
fine. Summer is very enjoyable certainly, but it has a luxuriance of
splendour that weighs down my spirits; and in those glorious hot,
dreamy haymaking days I seem unable to identify myself sufficiently
with all the beauty around me, and to pine for I don't exactly know
what. Winter is charming when it don't freeze, with its early
candle-light and long evenings; but autumn combines everything that to
me is most delightful--the joys of reality and the pleasures of
anticipation. Cousin Amelia don't think so at all.

"A nasty raw day, Kate," she remarked as we emerged from the hothouse
into the moist, heavy air. "How I hate the country! except whilst the
strawberries are ripe. Let's go back to the house, and read with our
feet on the fender till tea-time."

"Not yet, Emmy," I pleaded, for I really pined for a good walk; "let's
go on the highroad as far as the milestone--it's market day at
Muddlebury, and we shall see the tipsy farmers riding home and the
carriers' carts with their queer-looking loads; besides, think what a
colour you'll have for dinner. Come on, there's a dear!"

The last argument was unanswerable; and Cousin Amelia putting her best
foot foremost, we soon cleared the garden and the approach, and
emerged on the highroad three miles from Muddlebury, and well out of
the sight of the windows of Dangerfield Hall. As we rose the hill, on
t