" Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, " probably looks much as it always does at this time of year—the woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves."
" Oh! " cried Marianne, " with what transporting sensations have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."
" It is not every one," said Elinor, " who has your passion for dead leaves."
" No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But sometimes they are."—As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments; but rousing herself again, " Now, Edward," said she, calling his attention to the prospect, " here is Barton valley. Look up it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills ! Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton Park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see one end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill which rises with such grandeur, is the Barton Folly, with its angles simultaneously acute and obtuse."
" It is a beautiful country," he replied; " but these bottoms must be full of ichor in winter."
" How can you think of ichor, with such objects before you?"
" Because," replied he, smiling, " amongst the rest of the objects before me, I see a broad trail of ichor across the lane. And on either side of the lane some thing has broken through the underbrush on either side, perhaps twice the width of a common hay-wain, and yet proportioned as if such a wain was far, far broader at ground level than at its apex."
" How strange! " said Marianne to herself as she walked on.