But to us it is not monotonous; there is life and beauty in the ever-changing lights and shadows of the forest, sometimes most Rembrandt-like in their depth and dim obscurity; in the dainty colouring of the leaves, and the many strange formations of these ancient kings of the forest, standing in deep rank and file, sentinels and guardians of the silent land, their green heads lifted to the skies, their gnarled and knotted feet firmly planted on the earth below. We wonder are they quite dumb and speechless? Deaf to the low whispering of the wind, stirred only to a gentle rustle by its balmy breath? Who knows? What to us is the mere soughing of the wind may be to them a living language coming straight down from the Great Unknown, with a message cheering them in their solitude here with a promise of a hereafter, when they shall bloom in paradise, and angels walk and talk beneath their leafy shade. They seem so lonely here; they have never heard the sound of a human voice; no foot has ever strayed among their fallen leaves, no lovers’ voices made sweet music in the night, no childish babble echoed through their bended boughs. We are still lost in contemplation, with our thoughts wandering through the soft luxuriant beauty of this forest land, when we slowly emerge from its density into the open country. The landscape changes, widens,--Charleston is in sight! In a few minutes the cling-clanging of the engine bell tells us we are nearing the station--another moment, and we are there. It is evening now, the lamps are lighted, and but a few scattered groups are making their way homeward through the quiet streets, for they keep early hours in Charleston, and by ten o’clock all decent folk are at home in their beds. The gloomy grandeur of the “Charleston House”--and it is really a handsome stone building--attracts us not; we stop at the “Pavilion,” a pretty homelike hotel with a verandahed front, and balcony filled with evergreens and flowers, on the opposite corner of Meeting Street. Our room has the usual regulation furniture, without any pretensions to luxury--clean, comfortable beds, chilly-looking marble-topped tables, and the inevitable rocking chairs, without which the humblest home would be incomplete. We go to bed and sleep soundly after our twenty-four hours’ run.