A Song-Bird by Eleanora H. Stooke

IT was a fine afternoon at the end of September, on one of those golden days which frequently come when summer is ended, and the Mill House at W- was looking its best. It was an old stone house, close to the river, with lattice windows, around which creepers, now gorgeous with autumn's brilliant colouring, crept and twined whilst over the porch, which faced the southwest, clambered a monthly rose, on which a few pink blossoms bloomed, though it was so late in the season. Before the house was a well-kept plot of grass, surrounded by flower-beds and intersected by the path which led to the wicket-gate in the privet hedge which separated the garden from the high-road. And at the back of the house was a large yard, and a kitchen-garden reaching to the river's brink.

The mill wheel was silent on this perfect autumn afternoon, as it usually was on Saturday afternoons, and everything was very still within the house, where all was in apple-pie order. For visitors were expected, and a substantial meal was awaiting them in the parlour. Whilst in the kitchen, the kettle was singing merrily, and Jane, the capable middle-aged maid-of-all-work, in a spotless gown and clean cap and apron, was moving noiselessly about, duster in hand, in search of a speck of dust which might have escaped her notice.