e had secured his rifle, which he carried beneath his arm, and his
eye dwelt on the autumn forest, with the old dreamy look which we
have spoken of. As he thus went on, clad in his wild forest costume,
placing his moccasined feet with caution upon the sod, and bending his
head forward, as is the wont of hunters, Verty resembled nothing so
much as some wild tenant of the American backwoods, taken back to
Arcady, and in love with some fair Daphne, who had wiled him from the
deer.

All the old doubt and embarrassment had now disappeared from Redbud's
face; and Verty, too, was happy.

They went on talking very quietly and pleasantly--the fresh little
face of Redbud lit up by her tender smile.

"What are you gazing at?" said the young girl, smiling, as Verty's eye
fixed itself upon the blue sky intently; "I don't see anything--do
you?"

"Yes," said Verty, smiling too.

"What?"

"A pigeon."

"Where?"

"Up yonder!--and I declare! It is yours, Redbud."

"Mine?"

"Yes--see! he is sweeping nearer--pretty pigeon!"

"Oh--now I see him--but it is a mere speck; what clear sight you
have!"

Verty smiled.

"The fact is, I was brought up in the woods," he said.

"I know; but can you recognize--?"

"Your pigeon, Reddie? oh, yes! It is the one I shot that day, and
followed."

"Yes--"

"And found you by--I'm very much obliged to him," said Verty, smiling;
"there he goes, sweeping back to the Bower of Nature."

"How prettily he flies," Redbud said, looking at the bird,--"and now
he is gone."

"I see him yet--another has joined him--there they go--dying, dying,
dying in the distance--there! they are gone!"

And Verty turned to his companion.

"I always liked pigeons and doves," he said, "but doves the best; I
never shoot them now."

"I love them, too."

"They are so pretty!"

"Oh, yes!" said Redbud; "and they coo so sweetly. Did you never hear
them in the woods, Verty--moaning in their nests?"

"Often--very often, Reddie."

"Then the dove was the bird sent out of the ark, you know."

"Yes," said Verty, "and came back with the olive branch. I love to
read that."

"What a long, weary flight the poor bird must have had!"

"And how tired it must have been."

"But God sustained it."

"I know," said Verty; "I wish I had been there when it flew back.
How the children--if there were any children--must have smoothed its
wings, and petted it, and clapped their hands at the sight of the
olive branch!"

T