The day was still afar off. The cattle slept as he went out to the pinfold by the light of the stars, but the patient creatures roused themselves, and came forth with quiescent obedience; a calf bleated, running to overtake its dam, the dominant sound in the stillness, and the sheep huddled together in chilly guise as they went. There was a light presently in the windows of the house, yellow and lucent, but Jepson did not go back when once he had quitted the cabin; the farewell to the children would be rather pain than pleasure; there was even a pang in parting with the old dog, who persisted in following him for a time, driven back at last with harsh words and a purposely ill-aimed stone. Jepson could not see, but he knew how the creature crouched in the darkness, with its reproachful and surprised eyes; then turning, and coweringly running back to the doorstep. The half-grown puppy watched the departure with the intense interest naturally elicited by so unusual a proceeding, then affecting to misconstrue the whole incident, and with an elaborate ignoring of old acquaintance, he barked furiously into the darkness, not desisting when a shrill interpolated yelp betokened a reproving kick from Bowles, but continuing his clamors of threatening distrust after he had sought a refuge under the house, where no interference could reach him. Far down the mountain his callow tones could be heard, as Jepson rode at the rear of the little group of cattle and sheep. The wind was awake, inconceivably fresh, albeit hardly a leaf stirred, so light of foot it was. A fragrance like some fine elixir was distilled from the wayside flower hidden in the gloom. The morning star, so luminously still, so splendid, looked over the mountains as he journeyed with his flocks. A vague illumination was in the spaces surrounding it; one might see that this sky wore an ineffably poetic tint, did it but care to doff its sombre cloak. How massive the mountains,—how glooming and austere their summit lines, against the dark instarred skies! And suddenly a bird is moved to sing,—a note of supreme gladness, of joyous augury? For what does the night signify but that the morning is on the way? So close was Jepson to the tree whence this herald proclaimed the day that he could hear the rustle of the wings as the creature plumed them, and anon a low twittering as it settled down upon the bough for a little waiting,—a little waiting yet. And lo! the light comes, gray with vapor, and pale, and pensive, only won to flushes and to smiles when the great sun, riding hard upon the first glimmer, shows its vermilion disk, hung about with amber and violet vapors, in the gap of the mountains, urgent to look upon the world before their utmost heights are scaled. How purple the slopes; how the pearly mists slipped down; and what long, burnished, yellow slanting rays shot athwart the world to touch Chilhowee,—nay, the far-away dim summit of Walden’s Ridge,—while the