Autumn-scarcely late autumn yet-and the day had been mild. But as the afternoon wore on towards evening, there came the chilliness and early gloom inevitable at the fall of the year-accompanied, to those who are sensitive to such things, by the indescribable touch of melancholy never present in the same way at other seasons. Philippa Raynsworth shivered slightly, though half-unconscious that she did so, and turned towards the shelter of the friendly porch just at her side. As she moved, a hand was laid on her shoulder. "Come in, you silly girl," said its owner. "Do you want to catch cold?" Philippa had been watching the gradual disappearance of a carriage down the long drive, till a turn in the road suddenly hid it altogether. Others had been watching it too, but she was standing somewhat aloof-she had no special interest in the departing guests; she had never seen them till to-day, and might very probably never see them again. But something nevertheless had impressed her-the kind of day, the approach of the gloaming, the evening scents from the garden, the little shy breeze that murmured and grew silent again-there was a plaintive harmony in it all, and even the prosaic, measured sound of the horses' feet, growing fainter and fainter, and the carriage receding from sight while the "good-byes" still seemed hovering about, all fitted in. She did not seek to define what it reminded her of, or what feelings it awakened in her. It was just a scene-a passing impression, or possibly a lasting one. There is never any accounting for the permanence of certain spots in our experience-why some entirely trivial incident or sensation should remain indented on our memory for ever; while others which we would fain recall, some which it seems extraordinary that we should ever be able to forget, fade as if they had never been-who can say?