The small rustic bridge lay serene in the rosy sunset, the final rays of a red-rimmed sun playing over the knotted logs, darkened with age, and turning the silver of the bubbling brook to faintest pink. A little, rickety, fence-like structure gave the bridge its only guard, while golden honeysuckle, perfuming the surrounding countryside, entwined through its narrow, roughly-hewn railings. It was well worn: the paint of the railings peeled, the floor was indented where men and their beasts of many, fading centuries had tramped, but it nevertheless fitted into the scene with picturesque beauty. Gnarled oaks, cast their boughs to an arch overhead, and carpeted the country track with brown, withered leaves. The birds mingled their last calls with the quiet whispering of the evening breeze and the gentle lowing of some cows ambling across, lending a last touch to the fading scene.