y was the indignity.

"Dey aren't trained to hunt for you, Miss Emma," she said, more gloomily
than she had ever spoken before. "Dey knows de diff'unce 'tween de dark
meat and de light."

And then she laughed, as if her words meant nothing.

"They never shall touch _you_, Flor, while I'm alive!" suddenly
exclaimed Miss Emma, throwing her arms about her.

"Lors, Miss, how you talk!" cried Flor, and then broke into a gust of
tears. "To t'ink ob you a-carin' so much for a little darky, Miss!"--and
she set up a loud howl of joyful sorrow.

"You're the best friend I've got!" answered Miss Emma, hugging her with
renewed warmth. "I love you worlds better than Agatha! And I'll never
let you leave me! Oh, Flor! what shall we do?"

Flor looked about her for reply, and then scrambled up a sycamore like a
squirrel.

It was apparently an island in the swamp on which they were: for the
earth, though damp, was firm beneath them; and there was a thick growth
of various trees about, although most were draped to the ground in the
long, dark tresses of Spanish moss, waving dismally to and fro, with a
dull, heavy motion of grief. On every other side from that by which they
had come it appeared to be inaccessible, surrounded, as well as Flor
could see, by glimmering sheets of water, which probably were too full
of snags and broken stumps, still upright, for the navigation of boats
by any hands but those thoroughly acquainted with their wide region of
stagnant pools. This island was not, however, a small spot, but one that
comprised a variety of surfaces, having not only marsh and upland within
itself, but something that in the distance bore a fearful resemblance to
a young patch of standing corn, a suspicion confirmed into certainty by
a blue thread of smoke ascending a little way and falling again in a
cloud. Once, upon seeing such a sight, Flor might have fallen to the
ground herself,--this could be no less than the abode of those sad
runaways, those mythical Goblins of the Swamp,--but it would have been
because she had forgotten then that she was not one of the strong white
race that reared her. Now, at this moment, she felt a thrill of kinship
with these creatures, hunted for with bloodhounds, as she would be
to-morrow, perhaps.

"May-be I'll not go back," said Flor.

She slipped down the tree, and went silently to work, heaping a bed of
the hanging moss, less wet than the ground itself, for her young
mistress. Miss Emma acce