"Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set, but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, death!
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall touch the golden grain—
But who shall tell us when to look for thee?"
"A penny for your thoughts, Captain Clendenon," says a fresh, young voice, and a small hand taps him on the shoulder.
He turns with a start. One of the dusky-eyed belles of Memphis, with whom he has a casual acquaintance, has stopped to chat with him—a tall, handsome young lady in a mannish costume of navy-blue velvet, double-breasted English walking-jacket, a mannish hat set jauntily on her black hair, and a set of Grecian features, and large, black eyes.
His gray eyes light momentarily.
"Ah! Miss De Vere, this is a pleasure! About the thoughts—they were not worth your inquiry."
"I am the best judge of that," and something in her tones, not her careless words, imply that all his thoughts are precious to her.
He tosses his cigar away, and turning, asks, politely:
"Are you out for a stroll? May I walk with you?"
"Am I out for a stroll? Yes, but on my way home now. You may see me there with pleasure."
They walk on together down the quiet street, and her cheek flushes a warmer red as she chatters softly to him, he rather listening than talking. It is his way.