.

"MOI-JE SUIS PHILOSOPHE".
The air was like a mellow wine, and the light on the landscape was full of wistfulness.

It was a thing so exquisite that a man of sentiment like Jean Jacques in his younger days would have wept to see.

And the feeling was as palpable as the seeing; as in the early spring the new life which is being born in the year, produces a febrile kind of sorrow in the mind.

But the glow of Indian summer, that compromise, that after-thought of real summer, which brings her back for another good-bye ere she vanishes for ever--its sadness is of a different kind.