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Doctor Courtlandt determined to accompany his
brother to the Parsonage, inasmuch as it was not so
much out of his road to Miss Emberton's, and this determination
gave Caroline great delight. The day was
entirely too fine, she said, for one to be shut up in a carriage,
and now she would ride behind her uncle.

To this proposition, Doctor Courtlandt with great readiness
consented, and his aunt having brought out a voluminous
shawl, and spread it carefully upon the back of
her nephew's horse in order that the young girl's pretty
pink dress might not be soiled, Caroline with one quick
spring took her place behind Doctor Courtlandt, and the
party set forward toward the Parsonage. As for Max, he
promised to ride over in the afternoon.

The day was splendid, as our October days nearly
always are, with their brilliant sunlight, invigorating
breezes, and variegated trees and grasses. The small
streams ran merrily in the full fair light; the blue sky—
without a cloud, but shadowed by a tender delicate haze
drooped like a magical curtain over the far azure head-lands
of the green valley sea—the Sleepy Creek and Third
Hill mountain peaks; and the whole air seemed to be
alive with happiness and joy.

“Oh, uncle Max,” cried Caroline, “how glad we all
are you have come back again! But I believe I am
more delighted than any one else—for you know I always
was your pet: wasn't I?”

“By no means—not a bit more than Alice, you little
rogue—not a bit.”

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“You will call me `little.”'

“And are you not?”

“No.”

“How, pray? Are you so very huge, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, monsieur. I am seventeen, and at that age
young ladies are not little things.”

“I suppose then you have already made up your mind
to get married.”

“No, I have not.”

“Will you be an old maid?”

“Yes.”

“What will you do?”

“Keep house for Alice and Robert Emberton.”

“Hum!” said the Doctor, “is that all arranged, eh?”

“By no means; but he is the only beau in the neighborhood,
and Alice is a great deal prettier than I am.”

“Are you jealous of her?”

“No, I am not—but I would be, if it was not for one
thing.”

“What is that, pray?”

“Max's coming.”

“What has the arrival of Max to do with your jealousy?”

“Max shall be my beau.”

The Doctor sighed and smiled.

“That is all very well,” he said, “but there is an old
proverb, mademoiselle, which is somewhat applicable
here.”

“What is it?”

“That it takes two to make a bargain.”

Caroline laughed.

“Oh, Max likes me well enough,” she said, “and as
he is a much nicer person than Mr. Robert Emberton I
will have him for my cavalier.”

The Doctor sighed.

“Max is not very well,” he said, “but you have it in

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your power, Carry dear, to be of very great service to
him.”

“How, uncle Max?”

“By coaxing him out of his reserve and melancholy.
If Max was happy he would be as stout as a plowman.”

“Is he unhappy, uncle?” asked Caroline.

“Very, my dear Carry; very unhappy, and this is
what afflicts me so much. It would make a new man of
me were Max to grow gay and cheerful—try now and
amuse him.”

“Indeed I will, dear uncle,” said Caroline, tenderly,
“and on your account, for I dearly love you, uncle Max.”

The doctor took the little hand which clung to his
waist and affectionately pressed it.

“That is a good girl,” he said, “you and Alice too.
We are to have a dinner in three or four days, and this,
with your society will, I trust, wean Max from his melancholy
thoughts. He requires to be interested—employed;
if he is idle and has not congenial society he is gloomy.
We met little such abroad, and I am afraid our long residence
in Italy was scarcely a benefit to him.”

“Oh, how I should like to go to Italy,” cried Caroline,
“what a beautiful country it must be, uncle.”

“Yes—very beautiful.”

“But it could not be much prettier than our mountains
here. Look how grand they are—leaves of all possible
colors! and then see how pretty the Parsonage is,
coming out from the trees, on the side of the hill. It is
the nicest little house in the valley.”

“Yes; it is much changed, however. Ah, how familiar
every thing is!” said the Doctor. “Time! time!—
time is a dreadful but very instructive thing, Carry!
Come, we are at the end of our ride. Your father is out
of the carriage; and Alice—what a little fairy she is!”

Hunter John Myers, that stalwart mountaineer of old
days, came out to meet them. He was no longer stalwart,

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but bent down with years—those heavy stones which falling
slowly one by one upon the shoulders of the strongest
bend them to the earth, their resting-place. The old
man's head was snow-white, and his eye dimmed. It
was many years since it had flashed, as was its wont in
the past. His strong stride was now a feeble walk; his
gait had changed like all the rest. A venerable landmark
of the past, he stood on the confines of the two eras, like
an historical monument separating widely different lands.

He was still clad in his old hunting shirt which had
seen so much service in the woods, now waning before
his eyes; his head was still crowned with its regal otter
skin. At his feet a number of veteran deer hounds
crouched, whose days of activity and strength, like his
own, were slowly dropping into past days. Never would
they tear the throat of the deer brought to bay any more;
never again hear the hunter's horn, unless their old worn
out master, in melancholy jest, should take it from its
nail, and startle their old ears as they lay dreaming in
the sunshine.

The hunting days of the old man were over; he was on
the verge of the grave—painfully dragging along his feeble
limbs which he supported with a knotty stick. But
for all this his spirits had not left him. He was still
cheerful and hopeful; and came to meet his visitors now
with hearty pleasure in his old face.

“Welcome, Doctor,” he said, “my old eyes are blessed
to see you back safe and sound once more. I'd most nigh
given you up—'way off in foreign parts; but here you
are back again. Back strong and hearty, not like me,
old and weak and poorly. Welcome—welcome.”

“You are not so bad as you say, my good old friend,”
replied the Doctor, clasping the honest hand with kindly
warmth, “I bless heaven you are so well.”

“I am not long for this world,” said the old man, “soon
the mortal part of the man who went by the name o'

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Hunter John Myers on this earth, will be in the dust;—but
pray God his soul will return to that all-wise and loving
Creator who has been so good to him, through a long
happy life.”

“Pray God!” returned the Doctor, holding down his
head, and much affected by the old man's changed and
feeble voice.

“That's all I ask,” said the hunter, looking thoughtfully
out on the beautiful landscape, “I have lived my
life, and it was not so easy and well-doin' in the old Injun
times; but I never could complain of any thing, and I've
had more 'an my deserts. I'm most nigh gone away now
to the other country; when the Lord calls me, I hope I
will be ready.”

Then leading the way, they entered the house. Mrs.
Sally Courtlandt received them—the same tender, earnest
loving face of old times—the same soft voice which had
filled the long past years, for many there, with music.
She was little changed; the girl had become a woman—
that was all. She was happy in possessing so good and
tender a husband, in being able to minister to the wants
of the old man—in having dutiful and affectionate children.
Those blessings which had followed the “darling”
of the valley long ago into the new land of matrimony,
had not been uttered in vain, it seemed.

The house inside was little changed, but some additions
had been made, and some improvements introduced.
Sally's little chamber was now that of the sisters.

“The house has been plastered,” said hunter John,
“and they've put up a porch in front—none of my doings,
Doctor, you may be sure. I wanted them, though, to beautify
the place when my son was minister. They most
nigh refused, but had it done; so you see it ain't my doin'—
but they did it because I wanted 'em to.”

“It's much nicer, I think, grandfather,” said Alice sitting
down by him and affectionately resting her head on

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his shoulder, “the vines too improve it—in front, you
know.”

The old man, with an expression of great affection on
his placid features, patted the little hand which clasped
his own.

“Yes, yes, Alice darling,” he said, “the new things
are prettier than the old—the young fairer than the aged.
But what is Oscar growling about?”

The old stag hound rose to his feet and looked toward
the door, evidently moved to this unusual demonstration
by the approach of some visitor. At the same moment
the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard, and mingled with
this measured sound a young man's voice humming a
merry song.

“Who is that?” asked Doctor Courtlandt, “some visitor,
Carry?”

“Not mine!” said Caroline indifferently.

“But who is it?—he has dismounted apparently.”

“It is Robert Emberton,” said Alice, rising from her
seat, “you know, the brother of Miss Josephine, uncle.”

At the same moment the young man entered the room,
bowing to the company.

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