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.  Apple Orchard smiled on them as they came, and the bluff Squire, seated upon the portico, and reading that “Virginia Gazette” maligned by Roundjacket, gave them welcome with a hearty, laughing greeting.

The Squire declared that Redbud’s cheeks were beginning to be tolerably red again; that she had been pretending sickness only—­and then, with a vituperative epithet addressed to Caesar, the old gentleman re-commenced reading.

Redbud and Verty entered; and then the young man held out his hand.

“Are you going?” said the girl.

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “unless you will sing me something.  Oh, yes! let me go away with music in my ears.  Sing ‘Dulce Domum’ for me, Redbud.”

The young girl assented, with a smile; and sitting down at the harpsichord, sang the fine old ditty in her soft, tender voice, which was the very echo of joy and kindness.  The gentle carol floated on the evening air, and seemed to make the autumn twilight brighter, everything more lovely—­and Verty listened with a look more dreamy than before.

Then, as she sung, his eye was turned to the picture on the wall, which looked down with its loving eyes upon them.

Redbud ceased, and turned and saw the object of his regard.

“Mamma,” she said, in a low, thoughtful voice,—­“I love to think of her.”

And rising, she stood beside Verty, who was still looking at the portrait.

“She must have been very good,” he murmured; “I think her face is full of kindness.”

Redbud gazed softly at the portrait, and, as she mused, the dews of love and memory suffused her tender eyes, and she turned away.

“I love the face,” said Verty, softly; “and I think she must have been a kind, good mother, Redbud.  I thought just now that she was listening to you as you sang.”

And Verty gazed at the young girl, with a tenderness which filled her eyes with delight.

“She will bless you out of Heaven,” he continued, timidly; “for you are so beautiful and good—­so very beautiful!”

And a slight tremor passed over the young man’s frame as he spoke.

Redbud did not reply; a deep blush suffused her face, and she murmured something.  Then the young head drooped, and the face turned away.

The last ray of sunlight gleamed upon her hair and pure white forehead, and then fled away—­the day was ended.

Verty saw it, and held out his hand.