ool of the morning, on swift, high-bred horses, they rode side
by side along the river's towering bluff and laughed in sheer joy at
their foolish happiness. In the waning afternoon, hand in hand, they
walked the sunlit fields and paused at dusk to hear the songs of slaves.
The happiness of lovers is contagious. It sets the hearts of slaves to
singing.

In the white solemn splendor of the Southern moon they strolled through
enchanted paths of scented roses. On the rustic seat beneath a magnolia
in full second bloom they listened to the song of a mocking-bird whose
mate had built her nest in the rose trellis beside their door. They
could count the beat of his bird heart night after night as he sang the
glory of his love and the beauty of his coming brood of young.

"You are happy, dearest?" the lover sighed.

"In heaven,--I am with you."

"And it shall be forever."

"Forever!"

"The old life of blood and strife--it seems an ugly dream."

"Except for the sweet days when you were near."

"This only is life, my own, to hold your hand, and walk the way
together, to build, not to destroy, to make flowers bloom, birds and
slaves sing, to create, not kill--production is communion with God. We
live now in His peace that passeth understanding!"

A long silence followed. An owl in a distant tree top gave a shrill
plaintive cry. The bride nestled closer and he felt her shiver.

"You are chill, dearest?" he murmured.

"Just a little."

"We're forgetting the late August night winds--"

"No--no--it's nothing--I'm just a wee bit afraid of an owl, that's all."

A dark figure slowly approached and stood with uncovered head.

"What is it, James?" the master asked.

"It's too late, sir, for you and the mistis to be out in dis air--it's
chill an' fever time--"

"Thank you, James--we'll go in at once."

When the faithful footfall had died away, the lover lifted his bride in
his arms and carried her in, while she softly laughed and clung to his
strong young shoulders.

It came with swift, sure tread, the silent white figure of the
Pestilence that walks in Tropic Splendor.

The lover laughed the doctor's fears to scorn and the old man was brave
and cheerful in the presence of youth and happiness.

James Pemberton followed him to the gate and held his horse's bridle
with a tremor in his black hand.

"You don't think, doctor--" he paused, afraid to say the thing--"you
don't think my young mistis gwine ter die?"

"She