ried the old woman, aghast.
"I'll git it outen of you, chile. You jus' come home wif yer Aunt
Melvy; she'll take keer of you. Put yer arm on my shoulder; dat's
right. Don't you mind where you gwine at. I got yer bundle. It ain't
fur. Hit's dat little house a-hangin' on de side of de hill. Dey calls
it 'Who'd 'a' Thought It,' 'ca'se you nebber would 'a' thought of
puttin' a house dere. Dat's right; lean on yer mammy. I'll git dem old
cunjers outen you."

Thus encouraged and supported, Sandy stumbled on through the dark, up
a hillside that seemed never to end, across a bridge, then into a tiny
log cabin, where he dropped exhausted.

Off and on during the night he knew that there was a fire in the room,
and that strange things were happening to him. But it was all so queer
and unnatural that he did not know where the dreams left off and the
real began. He was vaguely conscious of his left foot being tied to
the right bedpost, of a lock of his hair being cut off and burned on
the hearth, and of a low monotonous chant that seemed to rise and fall
with the flicker of the flames. And when he cried out with the pain in
his sleep, a kindly black face bent over him, and the chant changed
into a soothing murmur:

"Nebber you min', sonny; Aunt Melvy gwine git dem cunjers out. She
gwine stay by you. You hol' on to her han', an' go to sleep; she'll
git dem old cunjers out."

CHAPTER VI

HOLLIS FARM

Clayton was an easy-going, prosperous old town which, in the
enthusiasm of youth, had started to climb the long hill to the north,
but growing indolent with age, had decided instead to go around.

Main street, broad and shady under an unbroken arch of maple boughs,
was flanked on each side by "Back street," the generic term applied to
all the parallel streets. The short cross-streets were designated by
the most direct method: "the street by the Baptist church," "the
street by Dr. Fenton's," "the street going out to Judge Hollis's," or
"the street where Mr. Moseley used to live." In the heart of the town
was the square, with the gray, weather-beaten court-house, the new and
formidable jail, the post-office and church.

For twenty years Dr. Fenton's old high-seated buggy had jogged over
the same daily course. It started at nine o'clock and passed with
never-varying regularity up one street and down another. When any one
was ill a sentinel was placed at the gate to hail the doctor, who was
as sure to pass as the passenger-