“I like this gray landscape,� Tibby said, breaking the harmony of silence. “Its very monotony is restful. A symphony in gray and gold. A light gray sky, a darker ground, and a girdle of gray hills against the horizon. The whole sun-tipped. Even the river is hidden to-day, usually shining in evidence.
“‘The day was dying and with feeble hands
Caressed the mountain tops. The vales between
Darkened. The river in the meadow lands
Sheathed itself as a sword and was not seen,’�
quoted Donald.
“Say rather, ‘Twilight gray had in her sober livery all things clad,’� responded Tibby. “See, the sun has disappeared.�
“I have an idea,� began Donald.
“All your own,� asked Tibby gravely, while she whipped the tall weeds by the roadside with her riding-whip.
“No,� Donald replied pleasantly; “it is borrowed.�