A more beautiful October morning than that of the next day never beamed
into the Welland valleys. The yearly dissolution of leafage was setting
in apace. The foliage of the park trees rapidly resolved itself into the
multitude of complexions which mark the subtle grades of decay,
reflecting wet lights of such innumerable hues that it was a wonder to
think their beauties only a repetition of scenes that had been exhibited
there on scores of previous Octobers, and had been allowed to pass away
without a single dirge from the imperturbable beings who walked among
them. Far in the shadows semi-opaque screens of blue haze made mysteries
of the commonest gravel-pit, dingle, or recess.

The wooden cabin at the foot of Rings-Hill Speer had been furnished by
Swithin as a sitting and sleeping apartment, some little while before
this time; for he had found it highly convenient, during night
observations at the top of the column, to remain on the spot all night,
not to disturb his grandmother by passing in and out of the house, and to
save himself the labour of incessantly crossing the field.

He would much have liked to tell her the secret, and, had it been his own
to tell, would probably have done so; but sharing it with an objector who
knew not his grandmother's affection so well as he did himself, there was
no alternative to holding his tongue. The more effectually to guard it
he decided to sleep at the cabin during the two or three nights previous
to his departure, leaving word at the homestead that in a day or two he
was going on an excursion.