rarely saw a strong, mettled horse; those left were old and work-worn and thin. There seemed not so many of anything; the barnyards lacked feathered people, the duck-ponds did not flower in white and gold as of yore, the broods of turkeys were farther between, even the flower gardens seemed lessened in colour, the blooms farther apart. At long intervals the Three Oaks’ carriage met or overtook slow travelers on the road. Chiefly they were women. In the same way the fields and gardens, the dooryards and doorsteps of the houses presented to view women and children. Miriam remarked upon this. “Just women and babies and old Father Time. I haven’t seen a young man to-day. I haven’t seen a boy—not one over fifteen. All gone.... And maybe the cannon balls to-day are playing among them as they played with Will.” “Miriam,” said her mother, “be as strong as Will! How shall you be merry with him when you do meet if you go on through life like this?” “I don’t see that you have any right to say that to me,” said Miriam. “I do everything just the same. And it seems to me that I can hear myself laughing all the day. Certainly I don’t cry. I never was a cry-baby.” “I had rather you cried,” answered Margaret Cleave. “Well, I’m not going to cry.... Look at that calf in the meadow yonder—little brown thing with a mark on the forehead! Doesn’t it look lonely—usually there are two of them playing together. Here comes an old man with a bucket.” It was an old negro with a great wooden bucket filled with quinces. He put up a beseeching hand and Tullius stopped the horses. “Dey’s moughty fine quinces, mistis. Don’ yo’ want ter buy ’em? Dey dries fust-rate.” “They’re dry already,” said Miriam. “They’re withered and small.” “Yass ’m. Dar ain’ anything dishyer war ain’t shrivelled. But I sho does need ter sell ’em, mistis.” “I can’t pay much for them,” said Margaret. “Money’s very scarce, uncle. It’s withered, too.” “Yass ’m, dats so! I ain’t er-gwiner ax much, mistis. I jes’ erbleeged ter sell ’em, kase de cabin’s bare. Ef ten dollars ’ll suit you—” Mrs. Cleave drew from her purse two Confederate notes. The seller of quinces emptied his freight into the bottom of the roomy equipage. He went on down the road, slow swinging his empty bucket, and the Three Oaks’ carriage mounted the last long hill. It was going to the county-seat to do some shopping. The sunshine lay in dead gold, upon the road and the fields on either hand. There was hardly wind enough to lift the down from the open milkweed pods. The mountains were wrapped in haze. “War-shrunk quinces!” said Miriam. “Do you remember the Thunder Run woman with blackberries to sell a month ago? She said the same thing. I said the berries were small and she said, ‘Yass, ma’am. The war’s done stunt them.’” “I wonder where the army is to-day!” “You’re thinking of Richard. You’re always thinking of Richard.”