Our fine Virginia autumn not only dowers the world with beautiful forests, and fresh breezes, and a thousand lovely aspects of the beautiful world—fine golden sunsets, musical dawns, and gorgeous noontides full of languid glory;—it also has its direct influence on the mind.

Would you dream? Go to the autumn woods; the life there is one golden round of fancies, such as come alone beneath waning forests, where the glories of the flower-crowned summer have yielded to a spell more powerful, objects more enthralling—because those objects have the charm of a maiden slowly passing, with a loveliness a thousand times increased, and sublimated, to the holy skies.

Would you have active life? That is there too—the deer, and sound of bugles rattling through the trees, and rousing echoes which go flashing through the hills, and filling the whole universe with jubilant laughter. Every mood has something offered for its entertainment in the grand autumns of our Blue-Ridge dominated land: chiefly the thoughtful, however, the serene and happy.

You dream there, under the boughs all gold, and blue, and crimson. Little things which obscured the eternal landscape, pass away, and the great stars, above the world, come out and flood the mind with a far other light than that which flowed from earthly tapers and rushlights. The heart is purer for such hours of thought; and as the splendid autumn marches on with pensive smiles, you see a glory in his waning cheek which neither the tender Spring, nor the rich, glittering Summer ever approached—an expression of hope and resignation which is greater than strength and victory. Ah, me! if we could always look, like autumn, on the coming storms and freezing snows, and see the light and warmth beyond the veil!

Verty went on beneath the autumn skies, and through the woods, the rustle of whose leaves was music to his forest-trained ear; and so arrived at Apple Orchard as the sun was setting brightly behind the pines, which he kindled gloriously.

Redbud was seated at the window; and the kind eyes and lips brightened, as the form of the young man became visible.

Verty dismounted and entered.

"I am very glad to see you!" said Redbud, smiling, and holding out her small hand; "what a sweet evening for your ride home."

Redbud was clad with her usual grace and simplicity. Her beautiful golden hair was brushed back from the pure, white forehead; her throat was enveloped in a circlet of diaphanous lace, and beneath this, as she breathed, the red beads of the coral necklace were visible, rising and falling with the pulsations of her heart. Redbud could not have very readily explained the reason for her fancy in wearing the necklace constantly. It was one of those caprices which every one experiences at times;—and so, although the girl had quite a magazine of such ornaments, she persisted in wearing the old necklace bought from the pedlar. Perhaps the word Providence may explain the matter.

To the girl's observation, that he had a fine evening for his ride homeward, Verty replied—Yes, that he had; that he could not go by, however, without coming to see her.

And as he uttered these words, the simple and tender glances of the two young persons encountered each other; and they both smiled.

"You know you are not very well," added Verty; "and I could'nt sleep well if I did not know how you were, Redbud."

The girl thanked him with another smile, and said:

"I believe I am nearly well now; the cold I caught the other day has entirely left me. I almost think I might take a stroll, if the sun was not so low."

"It is half an hour high—that is, it will not get cool until then,"
Verty said.

"Do you think I would catch cold?" asked the girl, smiling.

"I don't know," Verty said.

"Well, I do not think I will, and you shall wrap me in your coat, if I do," she said, laughing.

In ten minutes, Redbud and Verty were strolling through the grove, and admiring the sunset.

"How pretty it is," she said, gazing with pensive pleasure on the clouds; "and the old grove here is so still."

"Yes," Verty said, "I like the old grove very much. Do you see that locust? It was just at the foot of it, that we found the hare's form, when Dick mowed the grass. You recollect?"

"Oh, yes," Redbud replied; "and I remember what dear little creatures they were—not bigger than an apple, and with such frightened eyes. We put them back, you know, Verty—that is, I made you," she added, laughing.

Verty laughed too.

"They were funny little creatures," he said; "and they would have died—you know we never could have got the right things for them to eat—yes! there, in the long grass! How Molly Cotton jumped away."

They walked on.

"Here, by the filbert bush, we used to bury the apples to get mellow," Verty said; "nice, yellow, soft things they were, when we dug them up, with a smell of the earth about 'em! They were not like the June apples we used to get in the garden, where they dropped among the corn—their striped, red sides all covered with dust!"

"I liked the June apples the best," Redbud said, "but I think October is finer than June."

"Oh, yes. Redbud, I am going to get some filberts—will you have some?"

"If you please."

So Verty went to the bushes, and brought his hat full of them, and cracked them on a stone—the sun lighting up his long, tangled curls, and making brighter his bright smile.

Redbud stooped down, and gathered the kernels as they jumped from the shell, laughing and happy.

They had returned to their childhood again—bright and tender childhood, which dowers our after life with so many tender, mournful, happy memorials;—whose breezes fan our weary brows so often as we go on over the thorny path, once a path of flowers. They were once more children, and they wandered thus through the beautiful forest, collecting their memories, laughing here, sighing there—and giving an association or a word to every feature of the little landscape.

"How many things I remember," Verty said, thoughtfully, and smiling; "there, where Milo, the good dog, was buried, and a shot fired over him—there, where we treed the squirrel—and over yonder, by the run, which I used to think flowed by from fairy land—I remember so many things!"

"Yes—I do too," replied the girl, thoughtfully, bending her head.

"How singular it is that an Indian boy like me should have been brought up here," Verty said, buried in thought; "I think my life is stranger than what they call a romance."

Redbud made no reply.

"Ma mere would never tell me anything about myself," the young man went on, wistfully, "and I can't know anything except from her. I must be a Dacotah or a Delaware."

Redbud remained thoughtful for some moments, then raising her head, said:

"I do not believe you are an Indian, Verty. There is some mystery about you which I think the old Indian woman should tell. She certainly is not your mother," said Redbud, with a little smiling air of dogmatism.

"I don't know," Verty replied, "but I wish I did know. I used to be proud of being an Indian, but since I have grown up, and read how wicked they were, I wish I was not.

"You are not."

"Well, I think so, too," he replied; "I am not a bit like ma mere, who has long, straight black hair, and a face the color of that maple—dear ma mere!—while I have light hair, always getting rolled up. My face is different, too—I mean the color—I am sun-burned, but I remember when my face was very white."

And Verty smiled.

"I would ask her all about it," Redbud said.

"I think I will," was the reply; "but she don't seem to like it,
Redbud—it seems to worry her."

"But it is important to you, Verty."

"Yes, indeed it is."

"Ask her this evening."

"Do you advise me?"

"Yes. I think you ought to; indeed I do."

"Well, I will," Verty said; "and I know when ma mere understands that I am not happy as long as she does not tell me everything, she will speak to me."

"I think so, too," said Redbud; "and now, Verty, there is one thing more—trust in God, you know, is everything. He will do all for the best."

"Oh, yes," the young man said, as they turned toward Apple Orchard house again, "I am getting to do that—and I pray now, Redbud," he added, looking toward the sky, "I pray to the Great Spirit, as we call him—"

Redbud looked greatly delighted, and said:

"That is better than all; I do not see how any one can live without praying."

"I used to," Verty replied.

"It was so wrong."

"Yes, yes."

"And Verty gazed at the sunset with his dreamy, yet kindling eyes.

"If there is a Great Spirit, we ought to talk to him," he said, "and tell him what we want, and ask him to make us good; I think so at least—"

"Indeed we should."

"Then," continued Verty, "if that is true, we ought to think whether there is or is not such a spirit. There may be people in towns who don't believe there is—but I am obliged to. Look at the sun, Redbud—the beautiful sun going away like a great torch dying out;—and look at the clouds, as red as if a thousand deer had come to their death, and poured their blood out in a river! Look at the woods here, every color of the bow in the cloud, and the streams, and rocks, and all! There must be a Great Spirit who loves men, or he never would have made the world so beautiful."

Verty paused, and they went on slowly.

"We love him because he first loved us," said Redbud, thoughtfully.

"Yes, and what a love it must have been. Oh me!" said the young man, "I sometimes think of it until my heart is melted to water, and my eyes begin to feel heavy. What love it was!—and if we do not love in return, what punishment is great enough for such a crime!"

And Verty's face was raised with a dreamy, reverent look toward the sky. Youth, manhood, age—if they but thought of it!—but youth is a dream—manhood the waking—age the return to slumber. Busy, arranging the drapery of their couches, whether of royal purple or of beggar's rags, they cannot find the time to think of other things—even to listen to the grim breakers, with their awful voices roaring on the lee!

So, under the autumn skies, the young man and the maiden drew near home. Apple Orchard smiled on them as they came, and the bluff Squire, seated upon the portico, and reading that "Virginia Gazette" maligned by Roundjacket, gave them welcome with a hearty, laughing greeting.

The Squire declared that Redbud's cheeks were beginning to be tolerably red again; that she had been pretending sickness only—and then, with a vituperative epithet addressed to Caesar, the old gentleman re-commenced reading.

Redbud and Verty entered; and then the young man held out his hand.

"Are you going?" said the girl.

"Yes," he said, smiling, "unless you will sing me something. Oh, yes! let me go away with music in my ears. Sing 'Dulce Domum' for me, Redbud."

The young girl assented, with a smile; and sitting down at the harpsichord, sang the fine old ditty in her soft, tender voice, which was the very echo of joy and kindness. The gentle carol floated on the evening air, and seemed to make the autumn twilight brighter, everything more lovely—and Verty listened with a look more dreamy than before.

Then, as she sung, his eye was turned to the picture on the wall, which looked down with its loving eyes upon them.

Redbud ceased, and turned and saw the object of his regard.

"Mamma," she said, in a low, thoughtful voice,—"I love to think of her."

And rising, she stood beside Verty, who was still looking at the portrait.

"She must have been very good," he murmured; "I think her face is full of kindness."

Redbud gazed softly at the portrait, and, as she mused, the dews of love and memory suffused her tender eyes, and she turned away.

"I love the face," said Verty, softly; "and I think she must have been a kind, good mother, Redbud. I thought just now that she was listening to you as you sang."

And Verty gazed at the young girl, with a tenderness which filled her eyes with delight.

"She will bless you out of Heaven," he continued, timidly; "for you are so beautiful and good—so very beautiful!"

And a slight tremor passed over the young man's frame as he spoke.

Redbud did not reply; a deep blush suffused her face, and she murmured something. Then the young head drooped, and the face turned away.

The last ray of sunlight gleamed upon her hair and pure white forehead, and then fled away—the day was ended.

Verty saw it, and held out his hand.

"We have had a happy evening, at least I have," he said, in a low voice; "the autumn is so beautiful, and you are so kind and good."

She did not speak; but a faint wistful smile came to her lips as she placed her hand softly in his own.

"Look! the picture is smiling on you now!" said Verty; "you are just alike—both so beautiful!"

"Oh!" murmured Redbud, blushing; "like mamma?"

"Yes," said Verty, "and I saw the lips smile when I spoke."

They stood thus hand in hand—the tender mother-eyes upon them: then he turned and went away, looking back tenderly to the last.

Had the dim canvas smiled upon them, as they stood there hand in hand—a blessing on them from the far other world?