then looked again toward the mountains. Without preliminary or
affectation or demurral she began, in rather thrilling and more deeply
pitched tones to recite these lines:

"The Georgia hills, the Georgia hills!--
Oh, heart, why dost thou pine?
Are not these sheltered lowlands fair
With mead and bloom and vine?
Ah! as the slow-paced river here
Broods on its natal rills
My spirit drifts, in longing sweet,
Back to the Georgia hills.

"And through the close-drawn, curtained night
I steal on sleep's slow wings
Back to my heart's ease--slopes of pine--
Where end my wanderings.
Oh, heaven seems nearer from their tops--
And farther earthly ills--
Even in dreams, if I may but
Dream of my Georgia hills.

The grass upon their orchard sides
Is a fine couch to me;
The common note of each small bird
Passes all minstrelsy.
It would not seem so dread a thing
If, when the Reaper wills,
He might come there and take my hand
Up in the Georgia hills."

"That's great stuff, ma'am," said J. Pinkney Bloom, enthusiastically,
when the poetess had concluded. "I wish I had looked up poetry more
than I have. I was raised in the pine hills myself."

"The mountains ever call to their children," murmured Mrs. Blaylock. "I
feel that life will take on the rosy hue of hope again in among these
beautiful hills. Peyton--a little taste of the currant wine, if you
will be so good. The journey, though delightful in the extreme,
slightly fatigues me." Colonel Blaylock again visited the depths of
his prolific coat, and produced a tightly corked, rough, black bottle.
Mr. Bloom was on his feet in an instant.

"Let me bring a glass, ma'am. You come along, Colonel--there's a
little table we can bring, too. Maybe we can scare up some fruit or a
cup of tea on board. I'll ask Mac."

Mrs. Blaylock reclined at ease. Few royal ladies have held their royal
prerogative with the serene grace of the petted Southern woman. The
Colonel, with an air as gallant and assiduous as in the days of his
courtship, and J. Pinkney Bloom, with a ponderous agility half
professional and half directed by some resurrected, unnamed,
long-forgotten sentiment, formed a diversified but attentive court.
The currant wine--wine home made from the Holly Springs fruit--went
round, and then J. Pinkney began to hear something of Holly Springs
life.

It seemed (from the conversation of the Blaylocks)