IN THE GLOAMING. 



HE sun had gone, and above the dreamy 

 blue of the far-lying woods, the early 

 evening had hung the sky with mellow, 

 summery, twilight loveliness. 



The casements of the old house at Whitting- 

 ton glowed ruddy and warm through their mar- 

 vellous clustering ivy, and it was the idlest 

 luxury to hang over the crumbling road - wall, 

 peopling its suggestive chambers with the spirits 

 of their long-gone tenants. It is a farm-house 

 now, and there is no available record to tell the 

 stranger the story of its more glorious days. No 

 rigid history hampers the fancy, and the strolling 

 lover of the by-ways and roadsides of our dear 

 Mother England may let his imagination run with 

 flowing rein, sweeping away the hayricks and 



