Religion was a little girl her father broke his contract with his
employer, and to escape imprisonment he ran away. Religion remembered
his stolen visits at night, and his silent caresses of her. After a
while the visits stopped. They heard of him in a distant city, but he
never came back. His brother had died long before.

The widowed sisters stayed on the plantation, and both were favorites of
Mr. Robinson. Min and Tina were half-sisters. They were as opposite in
character as they were in appearance; everybody loved Min; she sang like
a bird, and her voice had been carefully trained, and some especial
provision had been made for its further cultivation when this strange
sickness overtook her.

Good nursing was unknown on the plantations, or perhaps the slight cold,
which was the beginning of the end with Min, might have been cured.
Since no member of the family had died with consumption, it was not
believed that she could have it.

When all the home remedies and doctors' prescriptions failed, there was
but one verdict, Min was "hurt." It was known that her half-sister was
not very friendly nor over-scrupulous, and it was believed that Tina,
out of jealousy, had thrown an evil spell.

The light was still lingering when Religion, turning out of the road,
ran down a narrow lane bordered with turpentine woods on one side, and
on the other by a field of dead pines. Away back among the latter was a
substantial log house, with good brick chimneys at either end. There
were several smaller buildings in the yard, and in one a woman was
stooping over the fire frying cakes, a young man was thrumming a banjo,
and a little boy in scantiest jeans was careening around to the
inspiring strains of "Old Joe kicking up behind and before."

Inside, the large low-ceiled room was in a blaze of light. There was a
tumbled bed in one corner, a table covered with dusty dishes and
glass-ware in another, and a large case filled with bottles, jugs, and
bundles occupied a third. Walls and ceiling were hidden by packages of
herbs and strings of roots, while over the fireplace were three shelves
piled high with cigar-boxes, carefully labelled.

Half buried in a great chair, his breast bare, his sleeves rolled up
above his elbows, the veins in his arms standing out like cords, his
legs wrapped in a blanket and resting upon a stool, sat Dr. Buzzard, to
all appearances in a deep sleep. On the floor, close to the hearth, was
a most evil-looking ol