Not many days afterward, as surrounded by fragrant flowers she sat one evening at twilight, to enjoy the cool breeze that whispered notes of melody along the distant groves, the little birds perched on every side, as if to watch the movements of their new visitor.  The bells were tolling, when Elfonzo silently stole along by the wild wood flowers, holding in his hand his favorite instrument of music —­his eye continually searching for Ambulinia, who hardly seemed to perceive him, as she played carelessly with the songsters that hopped from branch to branch.  Nothing could be more striking than the difference between the two.  Nature seemed to have given the more tender soul to Elfonzo, and the stronger and more courageous to Ambulinia.  A deep feeling spoke from the eyes of Elfonzo —­such a feeling as can only be expressed by those who are blessed as admirers, and by those who are able to return the same with sincerity of heart.  He was a few years older than Ambulinia:  she had turned a little into her seventeenth.  He had almost grown up in the Cherokee country, with the same equal proportions as one of the natives.  But little intimacy had existed between them until the year forty-one—­because the youth felt that the character of such a lovely girl was too exalted to inspire any other feeling than that of quiet reverence.  But as lovers will not always be insulted, at all times and under all circumstances, by the frowns and cold looks of crabbed old age, which should continually reflect dignity upon those around, and treat the unfortunate as well as the fortunate with a graceful mien, he continued to use diligence and perseverance.  All this lighted a spark in his heart that changed his whole character, and like the unyielding Deity that follows the storm to check its rage in the forest, he resolves for the first time to shake off his embarrassment and return where he had before only worshiped.

At last we begin to get the Major’s measure.  We are able to put this and that casual fact together, and build the man up before our eyes, and look at him.  And after we have got him built, we find him worth the trouble.  By the above comparison between his age and Ambulinia’s, we guess the war-worn veteran to be twenty-two; and the other facts stand thus:  he had grown up in the Cherokee country with the same equal proportions as one of the natives —­how flowing and graceful the language, and yet how tantalizing as to meaning!—­he had been turned adrift by his father, to whom he had been “somewhat of a dutiful son”; he wandered in distant lands; came back frequently “to the scenes of his boyhood, almost destitute of many of the comforts of life,” in order to get into the presence of his father’s winter-worn locks, and spread a humid veil of darkness around his expectations; but he was always promptly sent back to the cold charity of the combat again; he learned to play the fiddle, and made a name for himself in that line; he had dwelt