“Earth, the more I think of it, the more sure am I, that she is the same, for in no other way can I account for finding my handkerchief.” “Well, now there are forty ways in which I can account for it,” said Earth, “she might have lost it, or some other gal might have stole it, or some servant might have wiped it up, or she might have give it away, or,”— “Stop, Earth,” said Rolfe, shaking his head sorrowfully, “I don't believe she would have done that.” “Then come along,” replied Earth, “we shall see,” and a few moments after they were already on their march, bending their course North-east. The following morning the air was mild and soft, and the sun shining out, sparkled in the dew drops. The hunters felt its cheering influence; their spirits became buoyant as the dewy grass which rebounded from beneath their footsteps, and they continued their journey amusing themselves with border stories. They had not ceased to feel for the maiden, nor were they at all unmindful of the errand upon which they were going, but, as it often happens, the mind, when long and painfully depressed, breaks through the thraldom which confines it, and assumes suddenly a degree of cheerfulness sometimes mistaken for levity, and which, when contrasted with its previous melancholy, seems an enigma in its character. I do not know that this idea is clearly expressed, nor do I know how to account for the fact, yet often have I seen persons suffering under intense grief, without any apparent cause become wild with joy. “Rolfe,” said Earth, “we might just as well laugh as cry; 'twill do as much good.” “That is very true, Earth, but at what shall we laugh?” “Oh! I don't know; you spin us a yarn.” “No! Earth, you are the man for yarns; give us one of your hunting stories.” “A 'coon hunt?” “Yes.” “No, I won't give you a 'coon hunt. I'll give you a bear fight.” “Well, give us a bear fight.” “I know so many, I hardly know which one to tell. Did I ever tell you how near a panther was using me up.” “No, give us that.” “Then you shall hear it. It happened while I was living down by the big swamp. I was sitting in my cabin one night alone, thinking of a heap of things, and not thinking of much neither, when a notion struck me, that I should like some 'possum and hominy for supper. Well, I wa'nt hungry much, but the coals,—they were these large oak coals, you know; they looked so hot and clean that I thought it was a pity to let them burn out, as they were so nice for roasting. So I gits up. Says I, if there's a 'possum in these capes I'll have him, and calling along my old bitch Jupiter, I started out.” “But,” said Rolfe, “Jupiter is of the masculine gender.” “Do what!” said Earth. “Jupiter,” said Rolfe, “must be the name of a dog, and not of a bitch.” “Well, now I wan't speaking as to that; but if I don't know the name of my dog, who does? I tell you she was named Jupiter, and if you dont want to hear the story, I'll drop it.”