A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still September night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea.
When?
"Sweetheart," said Allan, "do you see? The leaves are beginning to fall and in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going to keep me waiting for wife and home?"
"I—don't—know."
"Dear, can't you trust me?"
"Yes, always," she answered, quickly. "You know that."
"Then when?"
"When all the colour is gone," she said, after a pause. "When the forest is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches—when Winter chills our hearts—then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back the Spring."
"Truly, Sweetheart?"
"Truly."