"No cloud? What is it then? Something has come over the sun."
"No, it's haze."
"What is haze?"
"I don't know. We have it in Indian summer, and sometimes in October, like this."
"Isn't it hot?" said Gertrude; "and last week we were having big fires.
It's such queer weather. Now this shade is nice."
Under one or two of the elm canopies along the verge of the little river some rustic seats had been fixed. Gertrude sat down. Diana stood, looking about her. The dreamy beauty through which she had ridden that afternoon was all round her still; and the meadow and the scattered elms, with the distant softly-rounded hills, were one of New England's combinations, in which the gentlest beauty and the most characteristic strength meet and mingle. But what was more yet to Diana, she was among Evan's haunts. Here he was at home. There seemed to her fancy to be a consciousness of him in the silent trees and river; as if they would say if they could,—as if they were saying mutely,—"We know him—we know him; and we are old friends of his. We could tell you a great deal about him."
"Elmfield is a pretty place," said Gertrude. She had been eyeing her companion while Diana was receiving the confidences of the trees.
"Lovely!"
"If it didn't grow so cold in winter," said the young lady, shrugging her airy shoulders.
"I like the cold."