y blights, and it
was too hot to mow the lawn? Is ever a November so self-centred as to
refuse to help the Old Year to a memory of the gleams of April, and the
nightingale's first song about the laggard ash-buds? Is icy December's
self so remorseless, even when the holly-berries are making a parade of
their value as Christmas decorations?--even when it's not much use
pretending, because the Waits came last night, and you thought, when you
heard them, what a long time ago it was that a little boy or girl, who
must have been yourself, was waked by them to wonder at the mysteries of
Night? But nothing is of any use in December, because January will come,
and this year will be dead and risen from its tomb, and the
metaphorically disposed will be hoping that Resurrection is not so
uncomfortable as all that comes to.

That time was eight weeks ahead one morning at Pensham Steynes, which
has to be borne in mind, as the residence of Sir Hamilton Torrens,
Bart., when the blind man, his son, was dictating to his sister Irene
one of the long missives he was given to sending to his _fiancee_ in
London. It was just such a late October day as the one indirectly
referred to above; in fact, it would quite have done for a Spring day,
if only you could have walked across the lawn without getting your feet
soaked. The chance primroses that the mild weather had deluded into
budding must have felt ashamed of their stupidity, and disgusted at the
sight of the stripped trees, although they may have reaped some
encouragement from a missel-thrush that had just begun again after the
holiday, and been grateful to the elms and oaks that had kept some
decent clothing on them. Irene had found one such primrose in a morning
walk, and a confirmation of it in the morning's _Times_.

"Why didn't you say the ground was covered with them, 'Re? I could have
believed in any number on your authority. Surely, a chap with his eyes
out is entitled to the advantages which seeing nothing confers on him.
Do please perjure yourself about violets and crocuses on my behalf. It
is quite a mistake to suppose I shall be jealous. You've no idea what a
magnanimous elder brother you've got." So Adrian had said when they came
in, and had felt his way to the piano--it was extraordinary how he had
learned to feel his way about--and had played the air of "Sumer is
ycumin in, lhude sing cucu," with the courage of a giant. Not only that,
but actually sang it, and never flinched