All faces were strange to him; he knew no one and no one knew him. “The Rest” had been burned during the war, and the new house looked strange. Across the river and opposite “The Rest” was “The Anchorage.” It looked changed; there were no little negroes playing on the lawn. “The Villa” further up the river was almost hidden by the trees that had grown so since he left. Timidly he turned his longing eyes on “Fairlands,” and he saw, a mile away across the river, grand pecan nut, majestic oak, poplar and horse-chestnut trees. He pulled from his pocket a bandanna handkerchief almost big enough to cover a baby’s crib, and said, brushing tears from his eyes, “Dat’s wha Mars Matthew an’ Miss Mary lib. Dat’s ‘Fairlands.’” He asked an old darkey unloading fish and soft crabs from his canoe if, for thirty cents, he would land him at the foot of the “Fairlands” garden. “Git abode; I got meh net sot at de foot ub de gyarden.” “Ev’ything is so changed,” he said inaudibly, as he took his seat in the bow of the boat. “Mars Bedford tole me I al’ays had uh home wid him,” and he almost regretted leaving his far Southern home. What a lovely day it was! The air was of caressing softness; the breeze was so light that the sail sometimes jibed, the ripples kissed lightly the sides of the boat that floated lazily along; the balmy June air, the sweet breath of the salt water, all, coupled with Ezra’s fatigue, soothed him and presently he was asleep. His hat fell off beside him, and Da wuz no wool on de top ub his haid, In de place wha de wool orter grow. Here and there on his face were little tufts of beard that looked like tiny grains of popped corn. In about an hour the boatman turned the stern of his boat towards the shore and pushed her on the beach at the foot of the garden back of the dwelling—spanked the water with his paddle, and Ezra awoke, got out, walked through the water bushes and soon was strolling along one of the garden walks. He thought how strange it was in the month of June those once leafless and carpet-like walks should be strewn with leaves; then he noticed that the box hedges were ragged and in places had paths through them; the grape arbors were decayed here and there and tottering, and many grapevines were trailing over and embracing leafless and dying peach and pear trees—— All that’s bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that’s sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest! Only the birds seemed to care for and own this once enchanting and beautiful garden, “warbled their native wood notes wild” and sang hallelujahs to the morning-glories and other flowers. Acres of air were filled with the delicious perfume of blooming grapevines, and the canticles of birds.