The autumn reigned in golden splendor--and not alone in gold: in purple, and azure and crimson, with a wealth of slowly falling leaves which soon would pass away, the poor perished glories of the fair golden year.

The wild geese flying South sent their faint carol from the clouds--the swamp sparrow twittered, and the still copse was stirred by the silent croak of some wandering wild turkey, or the far forest made most musical with that sound which the master of Wharncliffe Lodge delighted in, the "belling of the hart." Verty drank in these forest sounds, and the full glories of the Autumn, rapturously--while he looked and listened, all his sadness passed away, and his wild Indian nature made him happy there, in the heart of the woods.

Ever and anon, however, the events of the morning would occur to him, sweeping over his upraised brow like the shadow of a cloud, and dimming the brightness of his dreamy smiles.
"How red the maples grow!" he said, "they are burning away--and the dogwood! Poor oaks! I'm sorry for you; you are going, and I think you look like kings--going?
That was what Redbud said! She was going away--going away!" And a sigh issued from Verty's lips, which betrayed the importance he attached to Redbud's departure.

Then his head drooped; and he murmured--"going away!" Poor Verty! It does not require any very profound acuteness to divine your condition.

You are one more added to the list which Leander heads in the old Grecian fable.