With Guinea I sat and saw the sun go down behind a yellow gullied hill. From afar up and down the valley came the lonesome "pig-oo-ee!" of the farmers, calling their hogs for the evening's feed. We heard the flutter of the chickens, flying to roost, and the night hawk heard them, too, for his eager, hungry scream pierced the still air. On a smooth old rock at the verge of the ravine the girl's brother stood, arms folded, looking out over the darkening low land, and from within the house, where Mrs. Jucklin sat alone, there came a sad melody: "Come, thou fount of every blessing." The girl's eyes were upward turned. "Every evening comes with a new mystery," she said. "We think we know what to expect, but when the evening comes it is different from what it was yesterday." "And it is thus that we are enabled to live without growing tired of the world and of ourselves," I replied. "And I wish that I had come like the evening--with a mystery," I added. I heard her musical cluck and even in the dusk I could see the light of her smile. "But why should you want to come with a mystery?" she asked. "To inspire those about me with an interest regarding me. Even the stray dog is more interesting than the dog that is vouched for by the appearance of his master. I never saw a pack-peddler that I did not long to know something of his life, his emotions, the causes that sent him adrift, but I can't find this interest in a man whom I understand." She laughed again. "But haven't you some little mystery connected with your life?" she asked. "None. I have read myself into a position a few degrees above the clod-hopper, but that's all. If there were a war, I would be a soldier, but as there is no war, I am going to be a lawyer." "It would be nice, I should think, to stand up and make speeches," she said. "But wouldn't you rather be a doctor?" I don't know why I said it, but I replied that I hated doctors, and she did not laugh at this, but was silent. I waited for her to say something, but she uttered not a word. It was now dark, and I could just discern Alf's figure, standing on the rock. The song in the house was hushed. "I don't really mean that I hate doctors," I said, seeking to right myself, if, indeed, I had made a mistake; and she simply replied: "Oh." "I mean that I should not like to practice medicine," I added, and again she said: "Oh." A lamp had been lighted in the sitting-room, and thither we went, to join Old Lim and his wife, who were warm in the discussion of a religious question. The Book said that whatever a man's hands found to do he must do, and, therefore, he held that it was right to do almost anything on Sunday. "Even unto the fighting of chickens?" his wife asked.