The cornfields had grown to their full height and turned from green to
yellow. The stalks, stripped of their tops and blades, were bent by
the weight of their ears. There was a whispering of breezes in the
sedge-fields, in the long rows of brown-bolled cotton plants, among the
fodder-stacks, and in the forest that stretched from the main road up
the mountain-side. It was the season in which the rugged landscape
appeared most brilliant; when the kalmia bloomed, the gentian, the
primrose, the yellow daisy, the woodbine, and the golden-disked aster
still lingered in sunny spots. It was the season in which the leaves
of the maple were as red as blood.

John Westerfelt was leaving home, to take up his abode in the adjoining
county over the mountain. As he sat upon his horse and slowly rode
along, one who had known him six months before would scarcely have
recognized him, so great had been the change in his appearance. His
face was thinner; at the temples his hair had turned slightly gray, and
an ineffable expression of restless discontent lay about his eyes. A
sum of money had come to him from his father's estate, and with it he
had purchased a livery-stable at the village of Cartwright. Ever since
Sally Dawson's death, he had wanted an excuse to get away from the spot
where the tragedy had occurred, and his leaving his farm to the
management of his uncle now caused no particular comment among his
neighbors.

Reaching the highest point of the mountain, the village in question lay
in the valley below. Here he paused and looked behind him.

"God being my helper, I'm going to try to begin a new life over here,"
he said, almost aloud. "Surely, I have repented sorely enough, and