The skies which rose above the dying forest had acquired gentler tints, a wistfulness had come into the blue which was in keeping with the fall of the leaf.
There was a scent of moisture in the underwoods, rills had begun to babble; on the hazel rods leaves fluttered pathetically, the branches of the plane trees hung out like plumes, their drooping leaves making wonderful patterns.
In the hotel gardens a sunflower watched the yellowing forest, then bent its head and died.
The great cedar was deserted, and in October Morton was painting chrysanthemums on the walls of the dining-room. He called them the flowers of twilight, the flowers of the summer's twilight. Mildred watched him adding the last sprays to his bouquet of white and purple bloom.
The inveigling sweetness of these last bright days entered into life, quickening it with desire to catch and detain some tinge of autumn's melancholy. All were away in the fields and the forest; and, though little of their emotion transpired on their canvases, they were moved, as were Rousseau and Millet, by the grandeur of the blasted oak and the lonely byre standing against the long forest fringes, dimming in the violet twilight.
Elsie was delighted with her birch, and Cissy considered her rocks approvingly.
'You've caught the beauty of that birch,' said Cissy. 'How graceful it is in the languid air. It seems sad about something.'
'About the pine at the end of the glade,' said Elsie laughing. 'I brought the pine a little nearer. I think it composes better.'
'Yes, I think it does. You must come and see my rocks and ferns.
There's one corner I don't know what to do with. But I like my oak.'
'I will come presently. I'm working at the effect; the light will have changed in another half hour.'