hort pole
that lay before him across the saddle.

Gregoire's presence would be needed later in the day, when the cotton
was hauled to gin to be weighed; when the mules were brought to
stable, to see them properly fed and cared for, and the gearing all
put in place. In the meanwhile he was deliciously idle with Melicent.

They retreated into the woods, soon losing sight of everything but the
trees that surrounded them and the underbrush, that was scant and
scattered over the turf which the height of the trees permitted to
grow green and luxuriant.

There, on the far slope of the hill they found McFarlane's grave,
which they knew to be such only by the battered and weather-worn cross
of wood, that lurched disreputably to one side--there being no hand in
all the world that cared enough to make it straight--and from which
all lettering had long since been washed away. This cross was all that
marked the abiding place of that mist-like form, so often seen at dark
to stalk down the hill with threatening stride, or of moonlight nights
to cross the lake in a pirogue, whose substance though visible was
nought; with sound of dipping oars that made no ripple on the lake's
smooth surface. On stormy nights, some more gifted with spiritual
insight than their neighbors, and with hearing better sharpened to
delicate intonations of the supernatural, had not only seen the mist
figure mounted and flying across the hills, but had heard the panting
of the blood-hounds, as the invisible pack swept by in hot pursuit of
the slave so long ago at rest.

But it was "broad day," and here was nothing sinister to cause
Melicent the least little thrill of awe. No owl, no bat, no ill-omened
creature hovering near; only a mocking bird high up in the branches of
a tall pine tree, gushing forth his shrill staccatoes as blithely as
though he sang paeans to a translated soul in paradise.

"Poor old McFarlane," said Melicent, "I'll pay a little tribute to his
memory; I dare say his spirit has listened to nothing but abuse of
himself there in the other world, since it left his body here on the
hill;" and she took one of the long-stemmed blood-red flowers and laid
it beside the toppling cross.

"I reckon he's in a place w'ere flowers don't git much waterin', if
they got any there."

"Shame to talk so cruelly; I don't believe in such places."

"You don't believe in hell?" he asked in blank surprise.

"Certainly not. I'm a Unitarian."

"Well, that's