Reynolds watched her go tripping down the gentle slope, through the stunted wire grass and tufts of sedge, wearing on her hat his spray of mistletoe. She looked like a mere girl, slim and _svelt_, whose movements were as light and free as the wind. She had won over his dog and it trotted away beside her, looking up into her face. He felt his heart throbbing heavily, and something like a tender mist gathered in his eyes. An almost uncontrollable desire to go swiftly after her and clasp her in his arms took possession of him. Would he ever get so near her again? Would she ever again give him a look like that which was now pictured so vividly in his memory? Ah, those serious, tender, earnest eyes, that low, gentle, haunting voice! Would those sweet, half-sad lips ever meet his with a kiss of unquenchable love? He stood there actually trembling with the stress of his suddenly-generated emotions, an underglow of passion showing in his bronzed face.
It is one of the distinctive features of life in our Southern States, this keen pursuit and enjoyment of field sports. The climate favors every thing of the sort, and the tastes of the people, as well as the leisure which has always been their inheritance, keep alive a zest for out-door accomplishments, amongst which shooting is accorded the chief place. It has sometimes been hinted that, so zealous are they in this direction, if small game chances to be scarce, they will on occasion shoot at each other, in order not to fail of diligent practice; but no man who has ever enjoyed the cordial hospitality and generous freedom of a low-country plantation in the quail season, will be likely to recall any but the charmingest recollections of the occasion. The open season for small game comes there in the most delightful part of the year, when to be out of doors is, of itself, as exhilarating as a surf-bath in summer. From the old, wide-winged, airy plantation house and its profuse cheer and comfort, one goes forth into fields, basking in more than Indian-summer dreaminess and warmth. The air is fresh and pungent, the ground is dry, the prospect is liberal and inviting. There is no sense of limitation to the rambler's operations; he feels that, like the poet's brook, he can go on forever.