It is going
into history now with its sad old fancies and its quaint old
legends,--its record of happiness and of heartbreak,--those two
opposing, yet closely interwoven _inevitables_ which always belong to
a summer resort.

But Beersheba is different from the rest, in that the railroads have
never found it; and it goes into history a monument to the old days
when the wealthy among the southern folk flocked to the mountains, and
to Beersheba--queen of the hill country of Tennessee.

The western sky, where it seemed to slope down toward Dan, had turned
to gaudy orange; the east was hazy and dimly purple, streaked with
long lines of shadow, resembling, in truth, some lives we remember to
have noticed, lives that for all the sombre purple were still blotched
with the heavier shadows of pain that is never spoken.

It was inexpressibly lonely; true, a cowbell tingled in the distance,
and now and then a fox barked in a covert of Dark Hollow, that almost
impenetrable jungle that lies along the "Back Bone," a narrow, zigzag
ridge stretching from Dan to Beersheba.

Dan, modest little Dan, seven furlongs distant from queenly Beersheba,
with its one artistic little house refusing in spite of time and
weather, and that more deadly foe, _renters_, to be other than pretty
and picturesque, as it nestles like a little gray dove in its nest of
cedar and wild pine. A very dreamful place is Dan, dreamful and safe.

Safe, so thought the man leaning upon the low fence that inclosed the
old ante-bellum graveyard that was a part of Beersheba also. For in
the olden days people came by families and family connections,
bringing their servants and carriages. And those who died at Beersheba
were left sleeping in the little graveyard--a quiet spot, shut in by
old cedars and rustling laurel. A very solemn little resting-place,
with the cedars moaning, and the winds soughing, as if in continual
lament for the dead left to their care. Among the quiet sleepers was
one concerning whom the man leaning upon the fence never tired of
thinking, while he made, by instinct it seemed to him, a daily
pilgrimage to her grave. It was marked by a long, narrow shaft,
exceedingly small at the top. Midway the shaft a heart, chased out of
the yellow, moss-stained marble, a heart pierced by a bullet. He had
brushed the moss aside long ago to read the quaint yet fascinating
inscription:--

"Millicent--April, 1862. 'Oh, Shiloh! Shiloh!'"

He had heard the s