Look at the sun, Redbud--the beautiful sun going away like a great torch dying out;--and look at the clouds, as red as if a thousand deer had come to their death, and poured their blood out in a river! Look at the woods here, every color of the bow in the cloud, and the streams, and rocks, and all! There must be a Great Spirit who loves men, or he never would have made the world so beautiful." Verty paused, and they went on slowly.
"We love him because he first loved us," said Redbud, thoughtfully.
"Yes, and what a love it must have been.

Oh me!" said the young man, "I sometimes think of it until my heart is melted to water, and my eyes begin to feel heavy.

What love it was!--and if we do not love in return, what punishment is great enough for such a crime!" And Verty's face was raised with a dreamy, reverent look toward the sky.

Youth, manhood, age--if they but thought of it!--but youth is a dream--manhood the waking--age the return to slumber.

Busy, arranging the drapery of their couches, whether of royal purple or of beggar's rags, they cannot find the time to think of other things--even to listen to the grim breakers, with their awful voices roaring on the lee! So, under the autumn skies, the young man and the maiden drew near home.