St. Martin’s summer was in the land; that lovely parting smile of the year, so full of love, so full of reminiscence and of promise, so full of pathos and of that vague yearning that lies at the core of every heart, and which I fancy Bossuet means when he speaks of “the inexorable weariness which lurks at the foundations of all our lives.”
The door of Standish’s cottage stood wide, and between it and the lattice opening upon the sea, letting in the sweet breath of marigolds and thyme basking in the southern sun, Barbara stepped lightly back and forth, spinning from her great wheel the fine yarn that would be woven or knit into the winter garments of the household.
A shadow across the floor made her turn, quick yet fearless as a bird building in a tree above a house whose inmates never have threatened it.
A tall, good-looking young man stood in the doorway, and with his eyes searched the room before he said,—
“Good-morrow, dame. Is Lora somewhere at hand?”
“Oh, good-morrow, Ras! Lora has gone to the top of the hill for a breath of evening air. It has been so warm to-day.”
“Yes, Hobomok calls it the Indian’s summer because it comes just before winter,” replied Wrestling Brewster absently; and then after another moment of hesitation he pulled off his wide hat, and coming close to the spinner’s side fixed his eyes upon hers with a shy appeal while he asked,—
“Do you think, dame, I might ask her?”
“Ask her what, Ras?”
“Oh, Dame Barbara, you know full well what I fain would ask.”