Peaceville, September 18.

Went out to the mission in the pine woods with Mr. G. Quite a good congregation. They all walk miles, and bring their babies. Saw a most forlorn specimen of a man, sallow, emaciated, miserably clad, with three children wrapped in a heterogeneous collection of garments. Mr. G. turned to me and said:—

"You know Mr. Lewis, Mrs. Pennington?"

Before I could answer the poor gaberlunzie spoke up and said: "Oh, yes; she stood for these," waving his hand over the thin little objects. "You 'member, Miss Patience, this is Mary Frances and this is Easter Anne and this is Thomas Nelson."

I never felt more abashed in my life. Such a party to be responsible for! I stand for so many, many poor little babies, for whenever there is a christening I am in demand; but I never have had such a forlorn little company as this on my soul.

As soon as I recovered I asked how it was that I had not seen them for so long.

"We've bin a-travellin'! We moved off for a good many years now, an' that's why you've sort of lost us."

I asked where his wife was.

"Well, ma'am, she's gone; got tired of the job, an' lef' me."

"And who cooks?"

"Mary Frances cooks."

"And who washes the children's clothes?"

"Mary Frances, she washes, an' Mary Frances, she mends an' does everything."

When I looked at the wizen little girl, with her sallow blue skin and her skinny little arms and hands, I could scarcely keep back the tears, but I spoke very cheerily to her and complimented her on the get-up of the family, which truly showed ingenuity.

She told me she was 10 and Easter Anne 8. I could scarcely believe the tiny child was 10, but I promised to make some clothes for them before the next day the rector came, which will be Sunday three weeks. She did not seem excited or even pleased, but answered "Yessum" in a listless voice to all I said.

I asked some of the other people about them and found there was great indignation about the wife. These people are severe on the erring; it seems necessary to their self-respect.

September 19.

Bonaparte has been away on a little vacation and I have been superintending all the work personally for the past two weeks, and it is impossible to get a decent day's work done. The women just scratch the ground a little with their hoes when your eyes are on them, and as soon as you allow yourself to be diverted for a moment they stand quite idle.

September 21.

Was telling Miss Pandora about the Lewis children and how I was searching all my possessions to find something I could cut up to make into clothes for them. She said at once:—

"I have the stuff I got some time ago for a skirt. I will send it to you to-morrow."

I remonstrated, telling her it would not be suitable, as they should have stout stuff for clothes; but she persisted and sent it, three and one-half yards of very pretty crash. I nearly sent it back because it is too thin and unsuitable and would make such a pretty suit. However, after much consideration, I determined to offer it for sale, and if I succeed in getting the money for it, I will spend it in homespun and calico to make up. This afternoon I took it down the village and showed it to several people, and I finally left it to be examined.

September 22.

My little trading effort has been most successful. This morning I had a note to say that the stuff had been bought and sending me the money. I at once went down to Miss Penelope's and bought fifteen yards of stuff, different kinds for the different ones; and then set to work to cut and make three little frocks. Patterns seemed a difficulty, but I would allow nothing to cool my ardor. I made my own patterns, for these pine woods people know nothing of fashion in children's garments, and I am making them as I used to make children's clothes long ago.

The draperies Mary Frances had hanging around her were down to the ground and so were Easter Anne's. It will no doubt be a shock to have these only reach their ankles, but they will have time to get accustomed to it before cold weather comes. One wonders stupidly over things out of one's own beat, as it were, but of course when children do not have shoes and stockings in the cold weather trailing garments are preferred.

My neighbor the widow asked me to let her do some of the machine stitching for me, which is very nice of her, my machine being out of order for the first time in its thirty-seven years of service. I think Patty must have been experimenting with it, for it did beautiful work the last time I used it. Let no one turn up her nose at this old friend and say, "At least in machinery new friends are best." We are a faithful hearted people down here and see the beauty in our old friends, even though aware of the pathos of increased effort.

September 23.

This morning went over by invitation to look at the widow's steers which she is to sell to-day for a good price. They are very fine and perfectly gentle. She is a wonderful woman, doing all her own work and so much of it. Her vegetable garden has not a blade of grass. It contains turnips, cabbages, carrots, beets, and tomatoes. She milks her cow herself, waters her great number of flowers, drawing the water from a well with an old-time arrangement; keeps her large rose garden in order and has the house filled with fresh flowers.

To-night I finished two of the little frocks, and they look very sweet. I could not help stitching on a little band of contrasting color. Children's clothes should be pretty; all things connected with childhood should be pretty. The little ones thrive on things that feed the eye with beauty. The Great Father teaches us that wherever we turn in the loveliness spread around us everywhere, but we are so slow to learn.

September 24.

I undertook to have Jim do some mowing in the neighborhood, there being difficulty in getting a mowing machine for hire. But yesterday when the field was about half cut the blade broke, and now I have to send off eighteen miles to get another and by the time I have done I will be on the wrong side as far as profit goes.

Sunday, September 25.

Goliah came to me in great distress, weeping and saying his hoop, which he hung on the fence, was gone. I told him some of his very rude companions, whom he occasionally brings into the yard, had taken it.

"No, no," he said. Some one had broken it up, and he thought it was Patty. I reproved him for supposing Patty would do such a thing, but later when he had gone out of the yard I asked Patty if she had troubled the hoop. She said, "No." I answered, "I am very glad to hear it, for I would have been very angry if you had destroyed Goliah's hoop; it is an innocent amusement and keeps him out of mischief."

She went out quietly, but I soon found the yard was in the greatest excitement. Goliah returned and found some other cherished possession gone, and he sat on the back step and cried and sobbed. I tried to quiet him, but in vain, and then to add to the tragic effect his nose began to bleed and his clean white shirt had great splotches of blood.

There raged a tempest in a tea-pot this blessed day of rest. I could not stand it, and ordered Jim to put Ruth in the buckboard and gave the whole yard a holiday. I told Chloe I would not have any dinner, so she could go to visit her family. I was going out to St. Peter's-in-the-woods to take the clothes I had made to the children.

So I escaped and went to church, and then had a lovely drive through the pine woods, and the joy of putting the frocks on the children and finding that they fitted nicely, only I saw they thought them too short, so I said I would take them home and make them longer.

The wandering mother had returned and I had not the heart to look harshly at her; the poor little ones looked so happy—not a change of garment or any other change, just the little gray faces, which had looked so lustreless and lifeless, were full of interest and animation. The poverty of the surroundings, the doorless hut with no attempt at furniture—it was all pitiful.

It is very rare to see such poverty in this part of the world. I have never seen such a case before; but the man is a semi-invalid and work in the field for the woman not easy to get, I suppose.

I did not remember what a long way we have to go when going home. I had not started early, for I went to church first, and then went to ask a friend to go with me. At any rate when we had gone about half of the nine miles home the swift, soft darkness fell. It was a perfect evening and we were enjoying the delicious cool of the night air when I looked ahead in the very narrow road, a deep ditch on each side, and saw a steady bright light coming. I knew it was the one danger I feared.

Just then my companion saw it. "Patience," she said, "that is an automobile; the doctor's, I know. There is an ill man out on this road; what shall we do? He cannot see us."

That was perfectly true; we were completely in the darkness, and his big light did not cast far enough to give him time to stop his car when he saw us, and the road was too narrow for two buggies to pass, without great skill in driving.

I drove steadily on, but I felt dismayed. There was, I thought, not far away a bridge of pine saplings across the ditch on the right. If we could reach that before we were too near we might escape.

Meantime my companion said, "Let us call aloud, they may hear." So she lifted up a splendid strong voice and called, and when she ceased, her voice exhausted, I took it up; but on, on came that star of fate; it had the most curious inevitable look.

Only by its growing larger and larger could we know it was moving. Finally when A. said: "You must stop, you cannot go on," I knew she was right and that I must stop without having reached the little bridge which meant safety.

I stopped. On, on came the glare. Ruth, like myself, seemed fascinated by it. We were so powerless, for now we could hear the roaring and knew our voices were impotent to reach the driver. There was not fifty yards between us, and on they came. No, there is a change in the sound. They have stopped! Thank God! Thank God! It would have been a grizzly, grinding death.

The driver leaped out and came to us, white as a sheet.

"Oh," he said, "just in time! Miss A. saw your white shirt-waist and said, 'Stop: there is something ahead!'"

He was just as good as gold, and when I said if he moved the auto to one side a little I would undertake to lead Ruth by, "No, no," he said, "we must find some other way, the road is too narrow."

I told him of the little bridge and he found it just between us and the auto, and he insisted on leading Ruth over it; turned out his lights and glided past quietly, and then led the wonderfully well-behaved Ruth back into the road, and with hearty handclasps and thanks we proceeded on our way. Very thankful hearts beat within us and the mercy and goodness of the Great Creator seemed to be shouted to us from each brilliant star above.

September 26.

Started the flat off to Gregory for the fertilizer, five tons half lime and half 8-1-4. The river winds so that by water it is twenty-three miles about, while by land it is only fourteen. If everything goes well, they should get back here by Thursday. R. came down to spend three weeks with me, and he is helping me prepare the land for the alfalfa. It is so delightful to have him. He finds the nigs very trying. Yesterday he spent a good deal of time fixing a harrow, which was too light, by wiring on to it securely a long iron bar to make it heavy enough to crush the sods. Finally he got it just the right weight and started Elihu to work with it, and was delighted with the results. To-day when he went down to the plantation he found Elihu harrowing, but without the bar; he had cut every wire which had been securely fastened and taken off the bar. When R. asked him why he had done it, he scratched his head and laughed and answered:—

"Jes' so, Mass' Bob."

September 27.

The corn is all gathered and has done very well—814 bushels of slip-shuck corn on seven acres. Gibbie is very proud; he feels that he and Paul, the single ox, have done it all.

September 28.

Went to Casa Bianca and walked around the banks. The little rice planted looks fairly well. Nat seems to be doing his best in face of much opposition and difficulty. On the way back stopped at Cherokee and found that Elihu got back with the flat of fertilizer at sunrise this morning, which was doing splendidly. It was most fortunate, for this afternoon the storm signals are out in Gregory. Mr. L. was afraid to leave town with his tug towing a lighter, so it would have been impossible to bring an open flat out.

October 2.

The fertilizer has been distributed over the alfalfa field and the whole field is in fine order. Now the delay is in the nonarrival of the seed. I have sent to the railroad station several times, but they answer firmly that it has not come. It is very provoking, for all the books say it should be planted not later than October 1.

October 6.

R. was obliged to leave to-day, and without helping me plant the alfalfa, as it has not yet come. It is too bad, for it would have been such a comfort to get it in while he was here. I asked him to go to the station very early to-morrow—the train leaves at 6 a.m.—and ask permission, very politely, to look through the warehouse himself for it; he seemed to think this an unusual and unreasonable request, but I know the ways of the freight office in Gregory so well that I am sure the alfalfa is there.

October 7.

Elihu returned at one o'clock, bringing the sack of 100 pounds of alfalfa and a note from R. He had asked for it and was told it was not there; then, politely, he asked if he might look through the warehouse; permission was granted, and almost the first thing he stumbled upon was the bag. When he told the man in charge he had found it and pointed it out, he looked at it and said: "Oh, that's it, is it? That's been here two weeks."

I called Bonaparte at once and used what was left of the culture R. had mixed, though I felt uncertain as to whether it was still good. It was only enough to moisten a half bushel which I had well stirred and then spread out on the piazza to dry. Then I proceeded to put together the stuff for a second lot of the inoculating liquid. I had had the packages quite a while, and felt anxious about it. It was in proportion for ten gallons, but I only mixed five, putting in half of the package of each instead of the whole. That is the worst of being so remote from everything—the difficulty of replacing things if anything goes wrong. Whether the tub leaked or the culture evaporated, I do not know, but the quantity R. mixed should have been enough for the 100 pounds, but it has vanished or rather "minished," to use a very pregnant negro word, and now I have to use these old ingredients.

October 8.

Put in the second ingredient of the culture, then got Bonaparte and two boys with the seed drill, which I had asked R. to rent from a neighbor, and proceeded to plant the alfalfa seed wet with culture yesterday, as it was quite dry. The Imp and Manuel were charmed to run the little drill and fought over it, for I would not let either one do more than six rows.

A glorious sunshine, thank the Good Father. I hope I will get the cotton picked to-day and a good many peas, too.

10 p.m. A fine day's work. Took Patty and Goliah in to pick peas, and they did well and enjoyed it. I hear no one has made any peas this year, but I have made a great quantity, which is a great mercy. Patty, Goliah, and I picked peas along with the other hands.

Lizette was there with her little baby, the first time she has had it in the field. It is tiny and sits up very straight and looks like a little black doll. Her little son Isaiah sits and holds the baby all day. I constantly intervened and had its little head kept from rolling off, as it seemed likely to me to do when it was asleep.

I told Lizette about the children in the East Side Settlement House, each baby so comfortable in its basket, with no danger to its little delicate spine. Then as that did not seem to attract her I told her of the Indian babies safely bound to a straight board and hung in the trees. That desperate cruelty, as it seemed to her, roused her to speech, which it is difficult to do. With great indignation she told me there was no need for her to be so cruel to her baby as she had a boy to mind it. The boy may be four, but I do not think he is quite that. I am going to make a nice little box, with a handle and a little pad in it for a mattress, to carry the baby in.

I enjoyed every moment of this beautiful day drinking in God's glorious handiwork of air and sky—everywhere masses of goldenrod and banks of feathery white fennel.

October 10.

This morning Miss Pandora brought me a present of a dozen splendid apples! I was greatly touched by it—such a great present here, where we see no fruit but pears. It was Miss Melpomene's birthday and I was busy fixing up a little offering for her, a summer duck nicely roasted (for Chloe's cooking a duck doubles its value) surrounded by tomatoes from my pot plant, which are supposed to be very superior in flavor. I sent a note asking Miss Melpomene to go with me to Cherokee this afternoon prepared to pick peas.

She seemed startled but accepted with pleasure, and when I explained that she was to keep all she picked she was charmed, as hers have failed entirely. I drove to the field and left her there, having lent her my pea picking apron. It is made of light blue denim, quite long and turned up like a sewing apron only much larger, for it can hold nearly a bushel of peas.

I drove to the barn-yard to leave the horse and buckboard and return to help her pick, but I found ten hands waiting with huge bundles of peas. Bonaparte said with great impatience, "Dem do' want no money, dem want peas," so I said at once, "I don't blame them, let them have the peas."

But I had to stop and make the necessary calculations for each to get one-third of what she had picked. It was quite a business, for in all they had picked 1197 pounds of peas, some picking 150 pounds, others only fifty. They are selling for 10 cents a quart now, so naturally the pickers prefer taking a portion of the peas to money.

It was nearly dark when I got through and went back to Miss Melpomene, who thought something must have happened and seemed to think she had picked quite too many peas and was eager to make me take some. It was an original birthday party, but we both enjoyed it greatly, and the drive home was delightful, and we were very gay.

October 11.

Had Eva to sow by hand the little of the inoculated seed left yesterday. Assisted by Bonaparte I mixed the rest of the seed—one and three-quarter bushels—with the liquid culture and then spread the wet seed out in the piazza to dry. The stuff smelled very yeasty and queer. I do hope it is all right. As I had much more liquid than I needed, I mixed it with earth so that I may use it in future.

Yesterday, with a storm coming up, I was unable to get any one to haul in my beautiful pea-vine hay. A month ago Gibbie had asked permission to be absent to-day and I promised him he should go. I sent word to Elihu and George to come and handle the hay, but there was a funeral, and not a single man could I get.

October 12.

Drove down early to Cherokee, and finding the seed dry drove rapidly to Mr. L.'s place to get the drill, but instead of using it yesterday they were sowing rape to-day, so there was nothing to do but return quickly, send for all the women I could get, and sow it out by hand. The sowing was easy enough, though slow, for the women are accustomed to sow rice by hand, but the covering was the difficulty. I had eight hands all the time and then when the hands who were picking peas knocked off I called them in to help. The moon was high in the eastern sky when the last row was sowed, and then we had to stop, though about one and a half acres were not covered. It had been a great rush, and the hands all worked well and I paid them extra, for though they had not started till late, as I had counted on getting the drill, they had worked steadily. I was completely exhausted when I got home.

October 13.

When I got to the plantation this morning I found Bonaparte had five hands covering the one and a half acres left uncovered last night, and they took the whole day, and it was abominably done. He was in a very bad humor and would not follow my directions, and give each hand ten rows for him individually to do, so that one could see who was doing good work and who not; but insisted on laying off with stakes a section for each one, saying the rows were too long, and he must keep them together and watch them. "Dem's too striffling for tek dem long row. I 'bleege to keep dem close togeder, so I kin watch dem. Dem's striffling no 'count, good f'r nutting," etc., ad lib. I simply had to leave the field or have a tremendous flare up, so while I could control myself I left; but it was very trying, for this is the richest part of the field, and he had got the hands in such a bad humor that they were positively digging the seed out of the ground instead of covering it. For a few seconds I was on the point of ordering him out of the field, but that meant destroying his prestige and authority for all time, and he has all the barn keys, and I believe is faithful to the trust; he is just mulishly cantankerous sometimes.

I found Gibbie diligently running the mowing machine cutting down the second pea-field, while the hay which was cut down Monday and Tuesday and had two solid nights rain on the piles was dry on top and steaming wet underneath. I stopped the mowing and led Gibbie from cock to cock and made him toss and turn the pea-vine hay while I sent George to do the same to the broom-grass hay. No one seems to have any sense. I told them to keep turning it as it dried and then to begin hauling into the barn and to try to finish getting it in to-morrow. I shall not be able to come down to-morrow, as I have to send for and entertain our rector.

Sunday, October 15.

The blessed day of rest is most welcome. It being the third Sunday in the month, we had our rector. His sermon, an excellent one, on the text "For every idle word," etc., struck the little congregation with dismay. As I came out of church some one said to me: "Do you think Mr. C. has been hearing anything about us that made him preach that sermon?" "No, no," I answered, "I think not, but I feel that it was specially inspired for my benefit." "No, indeed, Mrs. Pennington," another put in, "not for you, but for me." And so there was a group of self-convicted sinners, whose sins of the tongue had been brought home to them. As the rector went into my sitting room he laid the fiery roll on the table, and when he left the room I took it up to get the chapter and verse of the text, so as to look it up, and on the cover I saw written "First preached, August, 1888."

That afternoon a lady came to see me with a solemn, pained aspect, and after the usual inevitable complimentary prelude cleared her throat and began. "It is with much sorrow, Mrs. Pennington, that I state from indisputable authority that during his last monthly visitation our revered rector heard from a lady, who shall be nameless, things concerning some of our most respected families which induced him to give us the extraordinarily clever and appropriate discourse to which we listened this morning." It was very hard for me to wait politely for the end of this well turned sentence, and as soon as I decently could I answered with delight: "I am very glad to be able to tell you, my dear Miss Arethusa, that you are entirely mistaken. That sermon was written and preached first in 1888! It only shows that human nature is much the same at all times and in all places, for you are not the only one who thought its application personal."

The hymn singing to-night was specially hearty and Mr. C. seemed greatly to enjoy listening, which is rare, the measure of enjoyment being generally in proportion to the vigor of one's individual efforts.

October 16.

Yesterday I had planned to go over with Mr. C. This morning he asked me to go and promised to drive me down to see Mrs. S., who is 86, and I have been suddenly seized with a great desire to visit her. I have never seen her since my father took me as a child to visit her. She has lived alone on her plantation for many years, as I do, and though it is only about twenty miles away the getting there, crossing two rivers and then a long drive, is intricate. Last night it seemed easy to cross the rivers with Mr. C., spend the night with Mrs. C. and himself at the All Saints' rectory and go on the next morning, returning here Wednesday evening, but this morning I am discouraged and cannot go. I found Mr. C. unprovided with the medicines we think necessary to have on hand in the country, as he is a new-comer, so I put up phials of quinine, calomel, and soda and it took some time.

Sunday, October 20.

No service in the little church to-day. Sent to ask A. if she would dine with me and drive out in the woods with me afterward. I called Chloe and Patty and Goliah in and read the morning prayer and the beautiful hymns for the twenty-first Sunday after Trinity. I played and had them sing the chants and we had a pleasant little service. I always like to have a scriptural quorum.

I hope the Good Father did not mind my sewing a little on Mary Frances' frock after I had read the prayers. I was careful to do it in private for fear of offending a weaker brother.

We started out in the buckboard at three, taking the three little frocks for the children and a nice dark calico shirt-waist suit for the poor mother. The drive was charming. Stopped to see Louise M., who is so faithful in trying to carry on the Sunday-school. Her little log cottage was as clean as possible and she showed with great pride their potatoes just dug; she and her husband insisted on giving us some; they were very large, some of them weighing two pounds.

Went on to the Lewis's; found them very cheerful and just eating their midday meal. I went into the hut and so saw what it was, a very large spider full of hominy. That seemed the only thing, but they were perfectly content, their hunger being appeased by the abundance and heat of the meal, for it was steaming, not cooled unnecessarily as our food is by being transferred from one receptacle to another. The spider had the place of honor in the middle of the table. Each one was helped to a pan of hominy from it, and then retired out of doors to eat it.

They were all delighted with their frocks. I had collected some few men's garments for the gaberlunzie who owns the flock. But when I produced the calico frock for the wife she just overflowed with joy like a child. After many expressions of delight and satisfaction she retired to a corner to put it on, saying:—

"I'm sure, Miss Patience, no one could say I'm not a-needin' it, fo' I ain't had a chanct to wash this frock I got on till there comes a red-hot day, fo' I didn't have a thing to put on w'ile I'm a-washin' it."

When she appeared in it she swelled with pride and said:—

"The pusson that made this frock must-'a' measured me w'en I was a-sleepin'. No dressmaker could 'a' fit me so well."

I found that this poor soul had been for a week nursing a neighbor night and day, only leaving her long enough to walk the mile home and get her meals.

Mrs. Sullivan is very old as well as very ill and very poor, so that all the lifting and cooking and work of every kind Mrs. Lewis has done. When I said, "But you ought to get your meals there," she answered:—

"There isn't enough, Miss Patience, in the house but jus' for her, an' I'm thankful that we've got plenty o' grits to eat now; nobody need be hungry here."

It certainly is a lesson in more ways than one to go among those whose lives are so elementary. This woman, who has been accused of failing in her highest duties, who knows the daily presence of want, who has never had enough of anything but air and sunshine and the breath of life, spends day and night and all her strength in nursing a woman for the moment poorer than herself, in that she is old and helpless, and there is no feeling that she is doing anything unusual.

She put some of the dry hominy in a bucket and saying, "Now I mus' be goin'; Miss Sullivan begged me pitiful not to stay long," she took the bucket and started off at a brisk walk, but I asked her to sit on the back of the buckboard as I had to pass the house. This delighted her and we had much talk.

I asked if Mrs. Sullivan had no children who could help with the nursing. She said she had two.

"Yes, mum, she has a daughter, but she's mighty feeble an' she lives three miles away, an' it jes seems as if she couldn't get to cum to her mar; an' when she does git there, well, she's that tuckered out an' that sorry fur her mar, that she jes sets in to cry. Then Miss Sullivan's son lives with her, but he seems as if his mind was a-goin'; he kyan't do nothing."

"Doesn't he work?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, mum, he goes out an' works turpentine—that's all they've got to live on—but he don't think to cut a stick of wood, or bring a drop of water 'less'n you tell him to do it. His mar's too sick to tell him, an' he'll jes sit there an' see the fire go out an' never think. But soon as I tell him to cut a piece o' wood he'll do it right off. He's a big strong man an' they say a powerful fellow to work, but he don't seem to have no head to think."

I was sorry it was too late for me to go in and see the old woman and her son and find out what was wrong with the latter. I remember John very well. When I taught him in Sunday-school he was a very mischievous boy, but not stupid at all. I cannot think what has come to him.

The drive home was delightful. No automobile disputed the road with us this time.

Peaceville, October 27.

Had a message to-day from the man who rents the farm that he was ready to deliver his rent in kind. It was a little misty, but I had said I would be there, so rode out on horseback while Gibbie drove the ox wagon with the big rack to receive the corn and fodder. It is "much ado about nothing," but I was solemn and put down the little numbers in my book as Mr. C. measured, though I did not dismount. The corn, fodder, and peas could all be carried in the wagon at one time, so one knows it is not a fortune. We have about 1800 acres of wild land, and in the middle of the tract is a little cabin where my father's stock-minder used to live, and every summer as we moved from the plantation, all the cattle were driven out into the pineland to spend the summer, and fatten on the rich grass of the savannahs—perhaps that is why we never heard of Texas fever among the cattle in those days. Certainly the imported stock which my father always kept throve and flourished, and they returned in November fat and hearty. Now it is impossible to do this for fear of their being stolen, and the summer on the plantation is hard on them.

The ride was delightful, the mist so soft and caressing. This has been a perfect autumn season, and I feel like clinging to the skirts of each day of crisp, cool temperature and glowing, gorgeous color. I want to keep winter off as long as possible.

November 6.

As I sat on the piazza to-day about noon a runner came to the step, an unknown negro. He looked exhausted, and I said: "You seem tired; sit on the step."

"Yes, Miss," he said. "Dem sen' me fu' bring yu' dis talifone messige, en dem say, 'Hurry.'"

He handed me a note, which I opened hastily. It was from the rector of All Saints, Waccamaw, saying: "Mrs. S. of Rose Hill is dead, and will be buried at The Oaks at 3 o'clock to-day."

At once I sent a message to Bonaparte to have the red boat and Elihu ready to take me over to Waccamaw and I followed as soon as I could have the buckboard got. I felt such a pang that I had allowed myself to be discouraged, and not gone over to see Mrs. S. when the impulse seized me to do so two weeks ago, and now her remarkable personality was gone.

When I got to the plantation I found that Elihu, with all the other men on the place, was cutting rice in No. 8, the field they had rented from me, which is some distance away, and it was late before I could get Elihu. When he finally appeared he seemed much indisposed for any exertion; said he was worn out; could not possibly row to Waccamaw, so I concluded I would have to give up going, and I said with a sigh: "I am sorry I cannot go. Mrs. S. was papa's cousin. I have never seen her since he took me to visit her when I was a child, and I would have liked to attend her funeral, to do the last honors to her."

I was just thinking aloud as I often do. The change was instantaneous, as though I had used a magic word. Elihu exclaimed, "Ole Mausa cousin fun'ral! Miss, yu's got to go, en I's got to tek yu; I kyan't trus' no one else for tek yu wanderin' trou' dem crick; I bleege to tek yu," and Bonaparte echoed like a dignified Greek chorus, "Ole Mausa cousin fun'ral. Yu got to go," repeated several times, as though life, death, eternity, nothing could count under such circumstances.

The red boat was rapidly got out. It was leaking badly, and they made a little platform of boards where I was to sit, to keep my feet dry. As I finally got settled in the boat I asked Bonaparte the time and found it was 3, the hour I should have been at The Oaks. However, being in the boat, having overcome so many obstacles, I determined not to be daunted by the lateness of the hour—also the clouds had gathered heavily and a sprinkle of rain was falling. I borrowed Bonaparte's competent looking silver watch, for no watch that I have ever owned could stand my strenuous life for more than three months, so that I have to do without one.

I asked Elihu when we would be back, as we glided through the first canal. He answered: "Not till long after dark." I remonstrated, "Why it surely is not further than Waverly," but he answered, "'E mos' twice es far." I felt a little dismayed, but we kept on through endless windings past Cherokee Canal, then Long Creek, then the Thoroughfare, and at last into the broad, beautiful Waccamaw. When we reached The Oaks, the competent watch pointed to five.

It was a deserted tropical looking landing, with no living thing in sight, only the ruins of some houses. I got out and followed the road until I saw across a field at some distance several vehicles. I walked toward them and found the procession had just arrived and were carrying the coffin into the graveyard, a private one, with high brick walls and many monuments of past generations. Among these is one to Gov. Joseph Alston (Mrs. S.'s uncle), the husband of the beautiful and ill-fated Theodosia Burr; also their son, Aaron Burr Alston, whose death almost broke the mother's heart.

The sacred spot looked very solemn with its heavy live oak shadows in the darkening afternoon.

Mrs. S. was 86, I believe, and a saint upon earth. Since the death of her twin sister some years ago she had lived alone on her plantation, doing all the good and kindness possible to the people around her, who had formerly belonged to her. For the past two years one of her nieces had been with her always and was with her on the plantation when she passed peacefully away. There were forty or fifty of her people who had followed her to the grave and stood near showing every sign of grief.

The sacred spot with its heavy live oak shadows.