At least, if this were true, Jonathan Gay would not be his rival.
It was the season of the year when the sunny days gave place to frosty nights, and all the changes of the autumn--the reddening of the fruit, the ripening of the nuts, the falling of the leaves--appeared to occur in the hours between sunset and sunrise.

A thin and watery moon shed a spectral light over the meadows, which seemed to float midway between the ashen band of the road and the jagged tops of the pines on the horizon.

There was no wind, and the few remaining leaves on the trees looked as if they were cut out of velvet.

The promise of a hoar-frost was in the air--and a silver veil lay already over the distance.
When he had turned into the branch road that led from the turnpike to the mill, a gig passed him, driven rapidly, and Reuben Merryweather called "good-night," in his friendly voice.

An instant later a spot of white in the road caught Abel's glance, and alighting, he picked up a knitted scarf, which he recognized even in the moonlight as one that Molly had worn.