Saturday noon
Even the weather changed , became complacent -- the valley was filled with the blue mirage of Indian summer , the apparent return of a warm , beneficent season . The decline of the year seemed to halt , relent , in still , sunny hours . It was as though nature , death , decay , had been arrested , set at naught ; that man might dwell forever amid peaceful memories , slumberous vistas , lost in that valley hidden by shimmering veils from all the implacable forces that bring the alternation of cause and effect upon subservient worlds and men . As customary on Saturday noon Gordon found his copy of the weekly _ Bugle _ projecting from his numbered compartment at the post-office . There were no letters . He thrust the paper into his pocket , and returned to the village street . The day was warm , but the mists that had enveloped the peaks were dissolving , the sky was sparkling , clear .