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"I suppose we might call him a romanticist," said I, "might we not?"

"Smith," said the Colonel, and then smoked and smiled again till my brow beaded,--"tired?"

"Good-evening," replied the nearer man. "How far is it to camp--Austin's?"

"Coralie! Coralie Rothvelt!"--my cry was an honest one--"you tempt me beyond human endurance."

Day came swiftly. By the time I could trot down to the sycamore it was perfectly light even in the shade of an old cotton-gin house close inside the corner of the small field around which I was to turn. The vast arms of its horse-power press, spreading rigidly downward, offered the only weird aspect that lingered in the lovely morning. I have a later and shuddering memory of it, but now the dewy air was full of sweet odors, the squirrel barked from the woods, the woodpecker tapped, and the lark, the cardinal and the mocking-bird were singing all around. The lint-box of the old cotton-press was covered with wet morning-glories. I took the bridle-path between the woods and the field and very soon was down in the dense forest beyond them. But the moment I was hid from house and clearing I turned my horse square to the left, stooped to his neck, and made straight through the pathless tangle.

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