Days went by, and the convalescent was amid the shrubs and flowers of the beautifully ornamented grounds.  When he came to the maiden reading in the shade of a great pecan-tree, she bid him to a seat.

“Do you remember our first meeting?” he asked.

“Here, on your sick-bed, yes; you were, oh! so sick, and I little thought you would ever leave it alive.  You called in your delirium your mother and your father, and in the frenzy of your mind you saw them by you; how my heart was pained, and how I prayed for you, in my chamber, here, and everywhere—­and now you are well, only weak.”

“It was not when sick I met you first,” he replied; “as a wild man you saw me first, clothed in the skins of the wild beasts of the forest.”

She gazed intently; could it be? and clasping her hands she bowed her head and was silent.

“We have met again,” he continued; “I had not forgotten you, but I dared not hope we should ever meet any more.  It was a painful thought; but I must not tell that—­” and there was silence.

Days went by, and the invalid was growing in strength and health.  They only met at the table at the family meals, but they were near each other.  It was at dinner when a ride on horseback was proposed for the evening’s recreation.  They rode in company, and through the forest where the winding road circled the hills, and the great magnolias threw their dark shade and deliciously cooled the vesper breeze.

“Is it romance, or are you the young gentleman with flowing hair and black, curling beard I met, and who shot the arrow into the cotton bale for my amusement?  O! how often have I seen you in my dreams; but I shall never see you as I saw you then.  What a study you were to me!  How could your words be so soft and gentle in the wild costume of the murderous savage?  Had you uttered the war-whoop and strode away with the stride and pride of the savage warrior, there would have been euphony in it, and I should have felt and known you were a savage—­and you would have passed from my mind.  But, ah! look how beautifully bounds away the startled doe we have aroused from her lair in the cave here.”

“She seems scarcely more startled than did you when I came so unexpectedly upon you in the store at Bayou Sara.  Were you not surprised to see that I could write?”

“You must not question me now.  Why have you cut your hair and beard? why doffed the prairie chieftain’s robes of state and come forth a plain man?  You have dispelled my romance.  I have tried to paint you as I saw and remembered you, and made charcoal sketches for the gratification of friends to whom I would describe you.  I would so like to see you as you were!  O! you were a wonder to me, a very Orson—­now, you are simply a—­”

“Miserable creature in plain clothes, and by no means a lady’s fancy.  Why did you not let me die, since all that was to be fancied about me—­my hair, my beard, and my buckskin coat, pants, and moccasins are gone and destroyed?”