I shall be very proud of the bag. I hope you are studying hard."
"Indeed!" muttered John. "Thanks, Miss Grey." There was no more of it.
John Penhallow had come by degrees to value the rare privilege of a
walk with the too easily wearied clergyman, who had avenues of ready
intellectual approach which invited the adventurous mind of the lad and
were not in the mental topography of James Penhallow. The cool, hazy days
of late October had come with their splendour of colour-contrasts such as
only the artist nature could make acceptable, and this year the autumn
was unusually brilliant.
"Do you enjoy it?" asked Rivers.
"Oh, yes, sir. I suppose every one does."
"In a measure, as some people do the great music, and as the poets
usually do not. People presume that the ear for rhythm is the same as
that for music. They are things apart. A few poets have had both."
"That seems strange," said John. "I have neither," and he was lost in
thought until Rivers, as usual easily tired, said, "Let us sit down. How
hazy the air is, John! It tenderly flatters these wild colour-contrasts.
It is like a November day of the Indian summer."
"Why do they call it Indian summer?" asked John.
"I do not know. I tried in vain to run it down in the dictionaries. In
Canada it is known as 'L'ete de St.
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