THE LAST OF THE FORESTERS,




CHAPTER I.

AT APPLE ORCHARD.


On a bright October morning, when the last century was rapidly going
down hill, and all old things began to give way to the new, the sun
was shining in upon the breakfast room at Apple Orchard with a joyous
splendor, which, perhaps, he had never before displayed in tarrying at
that domain, or any other.

But, about Apple Orchard, which we have introduced to the reader in
a manner somewhat abrupt and unceremonious. It was one of those old
wooden houses, which dot our valleys in Virginia almost at every
turn--contented with their absence from the gay flashing world of
cities, and raising proudly their moss-covered roofs between the
branches of wide spreading oaks, and haughty pines, and locusts,
burdening the air with perfume. Apple Orchard had about it an
indefinable air of moral happiness and domestic comfort. It seemed
full of memories, too; and you would have said that innumerable
weddings and christenings had taken place there, time out of
mind, leaving their influence on the old homestead, on its very
dormer-windows, and porch trellis-work, and clambering vines, and even
on the flags before the door, worn by the feet of children and slow