CHAPTER XIV.
THE COMING WINTER, AND A MERRY-MAKING.
November was come now.

The day I write of was damp and cheerless.

Grey, vapory clouds swept over the Tappan Zee, and a sad, sighing wind tossed it into crests.

A drizzling rain fell over Nyack, and the little town looked as if it had just taken a bath and gone to sleep for the night.
The hills wore a cold and bleak look, the foliage had lost its bright, golden tints, and now looked faded and colorless.

The leaves, too, were falling, and the naked trees seemed weeping and cold.