Not a scythe has swung in those hay fields; the gardens that lie in the sun are but tangles of weeds; no sheep stir on the hills, no cattle stand in these deep meadows, no wagons pass, no wayfarers.

It may be that the wild birds are moulting, but save at dawn and for a few moments at sundown they seem deathly silent to me." He had relapsed again into his moody, brooding attitude, elbows on the table, his handsome head supported by both hands.

And it was not like him to be downcast.

After a while he smiled.
"Egad," he said, "it is too melancholy for me here in the open; and I begin to long for the dusk of trees and for the honest scalp yell to cheer me up.

One knows what to expect in county Tryon--but not here, Loskiel--not here." "Our business here is like to be ended tomorrow," I remarked.
"Thank God for that," he said heartily, rising and buckling on his war belt.