On returning through the suburbs from our visit to the cemetery, we come upon a very handsome house in a solitary situation, surrounded by a somewhat neglected garden and wide-spreading meadows. Leading to the entrance is an avenue of fine old English oaks, draped with grey Spanish moss. Although secluded, it has the spires and steeples and other prominent features of Charleston city in full view. It is in a state of perfect preservation, with no signs of dilapidation anywhere--it is simply deserted utterly both by man and beast. The dog kennels are empty, not a bird sings from the boughs, not even the domestic cat crouches upon the tiles or creeps along the weedy garden paths; even the stone lions which guard the entrance look in a damp depressed condition, as though they too would be glad to get away if they only could! On inquiring the cause of this desertion, I am answered: “Oh, it belongs to a very fine family--they cleared out some weeks ago. They always leave in March and come back in October.” “What a pity! It seems to me that they are away at the very pleasantest season.” “But the most unhealthy; it is impossible to live about here during the summer months.” “Malaria?” I hazard interrogatively. “Worse--what we call country fever, which is more dangerous and often fatal. If it once gets thoroughly into the system people die of it, or are sufferers for life.” Presently we are overtaken by waggon loads of men, both black and white--all singing merry rollicking songs, and driving at a rapid pace towards the city. We draw our modest vehicle to one side as they rattle and clatter past us. We then learn that they are the factory phosphate hands, driving back to their homes in the city. Although the phosphate works are only an hour’s distance from Charleston they are totally deserted every evening; not a single living creature remains upon the premises, as it is injurious to breathe the poisonous air after the sun has set, for then the noxious vapours rise and fill the air with disease and death. Over the extensive works, where the sound of pickaxe and shovel and whirring wheels and human voices are echoing all the day, a silence falls, and the malarial fiend wanders through its confined space seeking, but seeking in vain, for some human prey to torment and kill with its subtle kiss.