great pools of thick
black water and leaning trees shrouded in long gray moss. The water lay
still in those levels until the sun dried it up. In just one place was
there the slightest movement. A short descent sent a stream slowly
curling away under masses of green briers.

The only stone known to be in the whole swamp was at the head of the
stream, on a tiny hillock formed of logs and the debris of many
freshets. It was known as Cuffee's Stone, and the story was that a slave
escaping from his master, and hiding in the swamp, had carried the stone
there to build his fire upon. Close by, its sprawling roots washed by
the running water, was an immense black-gum, in the branches of which
the same Cuffee had built himself a covert of branches, from which he
watched his pursuers in their vain hunt for him. Had Cuffee's shade,
which was said still to haunt the tree, been abroad at that hour, it
would have seen a girl narrowly scanning the rough stem, to find some
crack or cleft in which anything might be hidden.

And she found a small crevice which would have escaped any but her
searching eyes. They lit up as if she had found a rare treasure.
Inserting the point of a knife, she drew out a little bag wet and
mouldy. She never stopped to examine it, but leaped from log to log
through the briers and water out of the swamp.

"Here's your hair, Min. Curl it round your finger three times and throw
it in the fire. Oh, Min, now youna'll get well!"

A light shone in the sick girl's eyes. "Yes, I shall get well. Come out
and listen to the music, Religion."

"There isn't any music, Min. See the hair."

"Yes, I see the hair; but, oh, the beautiful music! If I could only
learn it!"

Religion clasped her close in her arms. The water-oaks were in a
golden-brown haze, and the room was full of rich light. But it swam in
darkness before the exhausted girl.

A moment after she recovered herself, but Min was well.

The Reprisal

BY H. W. McVICKAR

I

It was the 17th of March, yet the sun shone brilliantly, and the air was
soft and balmy as on any July day. Even the good St. Patrick could have
found no possible cause for complaint.

Most of the invalids about the hotel had ventured forth upon the
terrace, and sat in groups of twos and threes basking in the sunshine.
Their more fortunate brethren who were sojourning merely for rest after
the arduous duties of a social season had long since taken themselves
off to the pur