be of no avail.

It was at the close of a chilly evening late in autumn--old Boreas was
abroad, and had succeeded, it would seem, in working himself into an
ungovernable fit of rage, for he went about screaming most
boisterously, now hurrying the poor bewildered leaves along,
maliciously causing them to perform very undignified antics for their
_time of life_, while they, poor old withered things, thus suddenly
torn from the protecting arms of their parental tree, flew by, like
frightened children, vainly striving to gain some place of shelter.
Alas! alas! no rest was there for them. What infinite delight their
inveterate persecutor seemed to take in whirling them round and round,
dodging about, and seeking them in the most unheard-of places, where
they lay panting from very fright and fatigue. And then off he would
start again, shaking the window-sashes as he passed, with wild, though
impatient fury, remorselessly tearing down the large gilt signs which
had from time immemorial rejoiced in the respective and respectable
names of several worthies of our village, and then speeding away to
the homes of said worthies, to proclaim the audacious deed through the
key-hole, in the most impudent and incomprehensible manner possible.
It was on such an evening as this, a few months after the arrival of
the Laytons at Aberdeen, that the Misses Simpkins sat in their
cheerless back-room, hovering over a small fire, busily plying their
noisy knitting-needles, and meantime indulging in their usual dish of
scandal, which, however, it is but justice to say, was not quite so
highly seasoned with the spice of envy and malice as was its wont.
Whether it was that the memory of a bright and beaming little face
that had intruded upon their solitude during the afternoon, had half
succeeded in awakening the slumbering better nature which had slept so
long, it was somewhat doubted if any effort could resuscitate it
again; whether it was that the lingering echo of a certain sweet,
childish voice that had beguiled the weary hours of their dullness and
monotony, and with its innocent prattle, had, in some degree, forced
an opening through the firm frost-work which had been gradually
gathering for years round their hearts, I cannot tell; but true it is
that as the sister spinsters sat there, with the faint and feeble
flame struggling up from the small fire, and the light from the one
tall candle flickering and growing unsteady as it flashed upon th