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 was once the garden spot of North America. One views the ruins of a noble habitation with sadness; of the broad lands that nourished the inhabitants, with despair.

Strange as it may seem in this country of progress, there is probably less land in a state of cultivation in that section to-day than there was fifty years ago.

Live Oak Plantation, the home of Manning Moultrie, was one of the few rice plantations the organization and operation of which had not been thrown out of balance by the shock of the Civil War. The family fortunes were too securely rooted to be shaken by even such a cataclysm. Manning's father had simply laid down his sword to resume his operation of the broad acres, fertile as ever, but worked by paid in the place of slave labor.

The death of the master had made changes which the deaths of thousands could not. In the hands of an able and honest manager the plantation had become simply a great workshop; the old life was dead. Most of the former slaves remained, some drifted away.

Virginia had not visited Carolina since, immediately after the death of the husband and father, the widow had taken the children to Europe. This was when Virginia was ten years of age. Her recollections of the place were still accurate; of the life and customs, vague and uncertain. She had expected, of course, to be kindly received by the old friends of her family, but she was little prepared for the warmth of the reception which she found upon her arrival in Charleston during the last week in October.

Giles had reached New York late in September; he had spent a month at the Cromwell's in Manchester, 254