The fields grow golden; the redly-tinged leaves of the cotton-plant contrast with the chaste pure white of the lint in the bursting pods, now so abundantly yielding their wealth; the red ripe berries all over the woods, and the busy squirrels gathering and hoarding these and the richer forest-nuts; the cawing of the crows as they forage upon the ungathered corn, feeding and watching with the consciousness of thieves, and the fat cattle ruminating in the shade, make up a scene of beauty and loveliness not met with in a less fervid clime.  The entranced rapture which filled my soul when first I looked upon this scene comes over me now with a freshness that brings back the delights of that day with all its cherished memories, though fifty years have gone and their sorrows have crushed out all but hope from the heart—­and all the pleasures of the present are these memories kindly clustering about the soul.  Perhaps their delights, and those who shared them, will revive in eternity.  Perhaps not; perhaps all alike—­the pleasant and the painful—­are to be lost in an eternal, oblivious sleep.  It is all speculation; yet hope and doubt go on to the grave, and thence none return to cheer the one or elucidate the other.  But be it eternal life or eternal death, it is wise; for it is of God.

The autumn grew old and was threatening a frost—­the great enemy of fever.  The falling leaves and the fitful gusts of chill wind presaged the coming of winter.  The ear caught the ring of sounds more distant and more distinct now that the languor of summer was gone, and all animal nature seemed more invigorated and more elastic.  Health and her inhabitants were returning to the city, and the guests of the hospitable planters were thinning from the country.  Business was reviving and commotion was everywhere.

The young stranger was preparing to leave; yet he lingered.  Ann had gone; Alice grew more shy and timid, and his walks and rides were solitary, and but that he loved nature in her autumn robes would have been dull and uninteresting.  The judge was absent at another plantation beyond the river, and his books and his gun were his only companions.  Sometimes he read, sometimes he rode, and sometimes he walked to visit Toney.  It was on one of those peculiarly lonely afternoons which come in the last days of October when the stillness persuades to rest and meditation in the woods that, seated on a prostrate tree near the pathway which led down the little creek to the residence of Uncle Toney, the young guest of the judge was surprised by Alice with a small negro girl on their way to visit Uncle Toney.  Both started; but in a moment were reassured, and slowly walked to the cabin of the good old negro.

“I have come, Uncle Toney,” said the youth, “to see you for the last time.  I am going away to-morrow and, as soon as I can, going back to the distant home I so foolishly left.”

“I am sorry you tell me so; won’t you be sorry, Miss Alice?” asked Toney.  Alice bit her lip, and the flush upon her cheek was less ruddy than usual.