The Postmaster of Market Deignton by E. Phillips Oppenheim

I watch her cross the meadow and turn in at the gate which leads through the Court shrubberies. Here she waves me a final farewell, and disappears. After a few moments' indecision, I light a cigar and set out for a brisk walk through the woods.

For a time it is pleasant enough. I climb a hill and gain a fine view of the Court, with its picturesque outline and stacks of ancient chimneys clearly defined against the background of dark-green hills. The country, bare and brown in its winter's garb, is at its best in the faint soft sunlight. A blue haze hangs about the horizon, and though the deep colouring of autumn has almost faded, yet here and there the sunlight brings out a purple tone in the distant woods which surround the Court.