On Saturday, the 28th of September, the sun shone down on the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, as they washed sleepily up towards the shore; on the lazy and shabby little village of Churchill’s Point, with its steep-roofed old houses, with its small interests and dead-alive look; upon the burnished surface of the heath bronzing under the dry heat; upon the changing foliage of the distant forest dropping its leaves—and the sun shone down warm and still upon the dark red crumbling walls, the closed doors and boarded windows of the old Hall, and the tall dark poplar trees that waved like funeral plumes around it. Old Cumbo sat in the kitchen door, with the accustomed red handkerchief tied over her white and woolly hair, while her face, black, hard, and seamed with wrinkles, like an Indian walnut, was bent over her work, the tying up of dried herbs—fit guardian of such a desolation. It was a still, deserted scene, filled with low sad music—the waters moaned as they washed the shore—the wind sighed in the distant forest, and rushing over the heath, wailed through the poplar trees that rocked to and fro round the deserted house. Nature seemed to mourn the loss of the joyous worshipper, the exultant young life that had vanished from the scene. Keep this picture in your mind for a while, for years passed and brought no change, but change of seasons, to it. GROVE COTTAGE. The same morning the sun shone upon the Grove, refulgent in its still autumn glory, and falling upon the dry leaves and red berries of the rose trees, stole into the quiet parlor of the Cottage, still glittering in its sober, polished steel-like splendor, and smiled a morning smile upon the parson and his calm wife, sitting within. They were seated at opposite sides of a round table. The parson with his manuscript upon a small portable writing-desk, busy in correcting his sermons for the next day, while he carried on a desultory chat with his wife. Emily with her work-box before her, embroidering a very minute cap, and sustaining at her leisure her part in the quiet conversation. There they sat with no children to bind them together, yet loving and contented as a pair of partridges. They could not work apart, and the parson had abandoned his well appointed study and handsome writing-table, and Emily had forsaken her elegant workstand, and he had brought his manuscript, and she had brought her sewing to the small, round table, large enough, though, for the convenience of loving partners. And every day as soon as he arose, the sun looked full through the front window and laughed good morning, and every evening he glanced obliquely through the end window and smiled good night, with a promise to return. Remember this picture also, dear reader; for years passed away and brought no change to the Buncombes, except a baby to Emily, a little girl, born when she was thirty-seven, and two grey hairs to the parson, which Emily kissed when she saw them. THE U. S. STORE SHIP RAINBOW.