the dead child, who lay in the little cottage near.

From up and down the levee, as far as the voice had reached, came
fervent responses, "Amen!" and "Amen!"

Late in the morning the Riffraffs' artillery, all but their largest gun,
was, by the captain's command, dumped into the river.

This reserved cannon they planted, mouth upwards, by the roadside on
the site of the tragedy--a fitting memorial of the child-martyr.

It was Mrs. Magwire, who, remembering how Idyl had often stolen out and
hung a lantern at this dark turn of the "road bend," began thrusting a
pine torch into the cannon's mouth on dark nights as a slight memorial
of her. And those who noticed said she took her rosary there and said
her beads.

But Captain Doc had soon made the light his own special care, and until
his death, ten years later, the old man never failed to supply this
beacon to belated travellers on moonless nights.

After a time a large square lantern took the place of the torch of pine,
and grateful wayfarers alongshore, by rein or oar, guided or steered by
the glimmer of Saint Idyl's Light.

Last year the caving bank carried the rusty gun into the water. It is
well that time and its sweet symbol, the peace-loving river, should bury
forever from sight all record of a family feud half forgotten.

And yet, is it not meet that when the glorious tale of Farragut's
victory is told, the simple story of little Saint Idyl should sometimes
follow, as the tender benediction follows the triumphant chant?

"BLINK"

"BLINK"

I

It was nearly midnight of Christmas Eve on Oakland Plantation. In the
library of the great house a dim lamp burned, and here, in a big
arm-chair before a waning fire, Evelyn Bruce, a fair young girl, sat
earnestly talking to a withered old black woman, who sat on the rug at
her feet.

"An' yer say de plantatiom done sol', baby, an' we boun' ter move?"

"Yes, mammy, the old place must go."

"An' is de 'Onerble Mr. Citified buyed it, baby? I know he an' ole
marster sot up all endurin' las' night a-talkin' and a-figgurin'."

"Yes. Mr. Jacobs has closed the mortgage, and owns the place now."

"An' when is we gwine, baby?"

"The sooner the better. I wish the going were over."

"An' whar'bouts is we gwine, honey?"

"We will go to the city, mammy--to New Orleans. Something tells me that
father will never be able to attend to business again, and I am going to
work--to make money."

Mammy fell bac