tting drunk every Saturday night. Then it was he would
stalk and brag among those he ruled while they looked at him in awe
and reverence. But he had the touch of the philosopher in him and
would finally say: 'Come, touch me, boys; come, look at me; come,
feel me--I'm nothin' but a common man, although I appear so big.'"

Mrs. Westmore laughed in her mechanical way, but all the while she
was looking at Alice, who was watching the mare as she was led off.

Travis caught her eye and winked mischievously as he added: "Now,
Cousin Alethea, you must promise me to make Alice ride her whenever
she needs a tonic--every day, if necessary. I have bought her for
Alice, and she must get the benefit of her before it grows too cold."

He turned to Alice Westmore: "You have only to tell me which days--if
I am too busy to go with you--Jim will bring her over."

She smiled: "You are too kind, Richard, always thinking of my
pleasure. A ride like this once a week is tonic enough."

She went into the house to change her habit. Her brother Clay, who
had been sitting on the far end of the porch unobserved, arose and,
without noticing Travis as he passed, walked into the house.

"I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Westmore apologetically, "what is the
matter with Clay to-day."

"Why?" asked Travis indifferently enough.

"He has neglected his geological specimens all day, nor has he ever
been near his laboratory--he has one room he calls his laboratory,
you know. To-night he is moody and troubled."

Travis said nothing. At tea Clay was not there.

When Travis left it was still early and Alice walked with him to the
big gate. The moon shone dimly and the cool, pure light lay over
everything like the first mist of frost in November. Beyond, in the
field, where it struck into the open cotton bolls, it turned them
into December snow-banks.

Travis led his saddle horse, and as they walked to the gate, the
sweet and scarcely perceptible odor of the crepe-myrtle floated out
on the open air.

The crepe-myrtle has a way of surprising us now and then, and often
after a wet fall, it gives us the swan-song of a bloom, ere its
delicate blossoms, touched to death by frost, close forever their
scalloped pink eyes, on the rare summer of a life as spiritual as the
sweet soft gulf winds which brought it to life.

Was it symbolic to-night,--the swan-song of the romance of Alice
Westmore's life, begun under those very trees so many summers ago?

They st