d, as they believed, appointed from afar. As the sum-mer
waxed hotter the beautiful place took on an appearance of royal color
and splendor, and the air was languid with the perfume of the clove
carnations and tall white August lilies. Fluted dahlias, scarlet
poppies, and all the flowers that exhale their spice in the last hot
days of August burned incense for them. Their very hair was laden with
odor, their fingers flower-sweet, their minds took on the many colors of
their exquisite surroundings.

And it was part of this drama of love and scent and color that they
should see it slowly assume the more ethereal loveliness of September,
and watch the subtle amber rays shine through the thinning boughs, and
feel that all nature was becoming idealized. The birds were then mostly
silent. They had left their best notes on the hawthorns and among the
roses; but the crickets made a cheerful chirrup, and the great brown
butterflies displayed their richest velvets, and the gossamer-like
insects in the dreamy atmosphere performed dances and undulations full
of grace and mystery. And all these marvelous changes imparted to love
that sweet sadness which is beyond all words poetic and enchaining.

Yet however sweet the hours, they pass away, and it is not much memory
can save from the mutable, happy days of love. Still, when the hour of
departure came they had garnered enough to sweeten all the after-straits
and stress of time. September had then perceptibly begun to add to
the nights and shorten the days, and her tender touch had been laid on
everything. With a smile and a sigh the Rawdons turned their faces to
their pleasant home in the Land of the West. It was to be but a short
farewell. They had promised the Squire to return the following summer,
but he felt the desolation of the parting very keenly. With his hat
slightly lifted above his white head, he stood watching them out of
sight. Then he went to his organ, and very soon grand waves of melody
rolled outward and upward, and blended themselves with the clear,
soaring voice of Joel, the lad who blew the bellows of the instrument,
and shared all his master's joy in it. They played and sang until the
Squire rose weary, but full of gladness. The look of immortality was in
his eyes, its sure and certain hope in his heart. He let Joel lead him
to his chair by the window, and then he said to himself with visible
triumph:

"What Mr. Spencer or anyone else writes about 'the Unknowab