Far, far away in the Silver Creek Valley the sun was setting, and the purple shadow of the mystic Attacoa lay like a mighty altar upon the land. The Spring had come, and in her bosom she bore myriads of beautiful flowers wrapped in mantles of living green, as though she would make less bare the way for the shattered soldier in gray as he wearily wended homeward; as though she would make less bitter the sight of blackened chimneys or rotting doorsteps. Scarlet flowers sprang from the red earth of a thousand battlefields, and the deep periwinkle grew rich on the bodies of sunken heroes. Slowly and wearily the tattered men turned again homeward. And of an evening, when all was so still in the valley that the wood thrush took heart to flutter to the azaleas by the piazza of Sunahlee, a young woman walked up the long, red hill that led to the house. Dreamily she gazed toward the west, where the mighty Attacoa reared its dark bulk. Something she knew of the legends attached to it. For Ervin, in the fullness of their sympathy, had told her lovingly of his highland home, and it gave her a thrill of sweetest pain to fit his descriptions to the landmarks around. She had been in such close attendance upon her aunt, who, since Bessie’s death, had been prostrated, that her observations had been made for the most part from the balcony of the old hotel; but to-day, for the first time, she walked along the road she knew Ervin had trod many times and looked out over aspects once familiar to his eye. She paused before a large gate. Inside she saw a weed-grown driveway leading up to a dilapidated house, plainly handsome in its prime. As she looked she heard the sound of something coming up the long, red hill. There was no sound of hoofs, but as she peered into the gathering twilight she made out the forms of a number of shaggy dogs drawing a rattling old buggy. It was Uncle Ben. He did not see her until he had alighted stiffly to open the rusty gate. “Howdy, Mistis, howdy!” His old voice, though feeble, had a hearty ring to it that encouraged Helen to ask him who lived there. “Dis is S’nahlee, Mistis, Cunnel Tom Preston’s place. I would ax you to come in, Mistis, ’cause de Prestons dey sholy always wuz hospitable—but dey ain’t none of ’em lef’ now, ’ceptin’ of de ole Cunnel, an’ he don’ know nothin’ that’s goin’ on—hasn’t even reelized Miss Helen’s death. This war’s bin awful hard on we-all.” He sighed, and Helen, who recognized the name, asked: “Is there no hope for Colonel Preston’s recovery?”