I listened, but caught no tone of her sharp voice, which usually came painfully from the back regions of the house; it would ill have harmonised with the sweet autumn day and the robin's song.

I sat, idly thinking so, and wondering whether it were a necessary and universal fact that human beings, unlike the year, should become harsh and unlovely as they grow old.
My robin had done singing, and I amused myself with watching a spot of scarlet winding down the rural road, our house being on the verge where Norton Bury melted into "the country." It turned out to be the cloak of a well-to-do young farmer's wife riding to market in her cart beside her jolly-looking spouse.

Very spruce and self-satisfied she appeared, and the market-people turned to stare after her, for her costume was a novelty then.

Doubtless, many thought as I did, how much prettier was scarlet than duffle grey.
Behind the farmer's cart came another, which at first I scarcely noticed, being engrossed by the ruddy face under the red cloak.

The farmer himself nodded good-humouredly, but Mrs.Scarlet-cloak turned up her nose.