first few days after her return, and, attributing
it to loneliness, wished Betty had brought Mary Winston home with her
for a visit.

"Rantin' 'roun' 'mong fine folks doan seem to 'gree wid you, honey,"
old Aunt Dilsey said one morning when she found Betsy in the parlor,
her hands folded listlessly on the unheeded sewing in her lap, as she
gazed dreamily before her. "You'se all onsettled sence you'se come
home. Things would go tah rack an' ruin heah, wid yo' ma allus ailin',
an' you so no-'count, ef 'twan't fur ole Dilsey tah keep dese lazy
niggahs frum gwinetah sleep en thah tracks. I usetah think you'd be a
he'p an' a comfo't to yo' old brack mammy, an' turn out ez fine a
man'ger an' housekeepah ez Miss Abby; but you hain't been yo'se'f sence
thet camp-meetin'. I 'lowed et fust 'twuz too much 'ligion wuckin' in
you, an' thought it would bring you all right to go to Miss Mary
Winston's fine place; but you'se come back wussen evah. You hain't
gwinetah be sick, is you, chile? One minit you looks lak thah warn't a
drap o' blood in yo' body, then suddent lak, you flash up an' look so
narvous an' so excited thet I fears you'se tekin' the fevahs."

"No, mammy, I'm not the least sick. Nothing ails me, except that I feel
the change a little from the gay times I've been having at Maybrook.
I'll be all right presently."

Soon after dinner upon the first day of November, Betsy, evading Aunt
Dilsey's watchful eyes, called Jock, the old house-dog who was dozing
in the south porch, and set off for a ramble. The balmy air and the
brisk walk refreshed her, and by the time she reached the bars
separating the upper from the lower woods, she felt lighter hearted
than she had for a long time. Her eyes glowed with exercise, a bright
tinge showed in her cheeks, and her red cloak and brown quilted bonnet
lined with crimson made a warm bit of color in the landscape, and
blended harmoniously with the rich shades of the trees. Nature was
steeped in that tender, dreamy haze peculiar to Indian Summer, and the
air held a pleasing odor like that of burning leaves. The songbirds had
gone away to winter homes in the South, and the stillness of the forest
was broken only by the dropping of nuts from the hickory-trees.

"The first day of November!" she thought, as she stood leaning on the
bars, with old Jock lying at her feet. "I wonder how soon he will
come," and she smiled tenderly. "Not to-day or to-morrow, I know; for
he has gone to Lexington