on his stick, with the tin box held in his left hand, and the dying
sunlight shining on his silver hair and furrowed face.

Along the serpentine path which was bordered with masses of
brilliant chrysanthemums, Beryl walked rapidly, feeling almost
stifled by the pressure of contending emotions. Recollecting that
these spice censers of Autumn were her mother's favorite flowers,
she stooped and broke several lovely clusters of orange and garnet
color, hoping that a lingering breath of perfume from the home of
her girlhood, might afford at least a melancholy pleasure to the
distant invalid.

Advancing into the elm avenue, she heard a voice calling, and
looking back, saw the old negro man, Bedney, waving his white apron
and running toward her; but at that moment his steps were arrested
by the sudden, loud and rapid ringing of a bell. He paused,
listened, wavered; then threw up his hands, and hurried back to the
house, whence issued the impatient summons.

The sun had gone down in the green sea of far-off pine tops, but the
western sky glowed like some vast altar of topaz, whereon zodiacal
fires had kindled the rays of vivid rose, that sprang into the
zenith and cooled their flush in the pale blue of the upper air.
Under the elms, swift southern twilight was already filling the
arches with purple gloom, and when the heavy iron gate closed with a
sullen clang behind her, Beryl drew a long deep breath of relief. On
the sultry atmosphere broke the gurgling andante music of the
"branch," as it eddied among the nodding ferns, and darted under the
bridge; and the weary, thirsty woman knelt on the mossy margin,
dipped up the amber water in her palms, drank, and bathed her