the deed of the Accabee land and a paper
that he had forced her to sign without knowing its contents, he started
for the settlements, intending to sell the property and sail for England.
On the edge of the village his flight was stayed by a tall form that
arose in his path-that of the Indian. "I gave you all," said the chief,
"the woman who should have been my wife, and then my land. This is your
thanks. You shall go no farther."

With a quick stroke of the axe he cleft the skull of the shrinking
wretch, and then, cutting off his scalp, the Indian ran to the cottage
where sat the abandoned wife, weeping before the embers of her fire. He
roused her by tossing on fresh fuel, but she shrank back in grief and
shame when she saw who had come to her. "Do not fear," he said. "The man
who struck you meant to sell your home to strangers"--and he laid the
deed of sale before her, "but he will never play you false or lay hands on
you again. Look!" He tossed the dripping scalp upon the paper. "Now I
leave you forever. I cannot take you back among my people, who do not
know deceit like yours, nor could I ever love you as I did at first."
Turning, without other farewell he went out at the door. When this gift
of Accabee land was sold--for the woman could no longer bear to live on
it, but went to a northern city--a handsome house was built by the new
owner, who added game preserves and pleasure grounds to the estate, but
it was "haunted by a grief." Illness and ill luck followed the purchase,
and the house fell into ruin.

TOCCOA FALLS

Early in the days of the white occupation of Georgia a cabin stood not
far from the Falls of Toccoa (the Beautiful). Its only occupant was a
feeble woman, who found it ill work to get food enough from the wild
fruits and scanty clearing near the house, and she had nigh forgotten the
taste of meat; for her two sons, who were her pride no less than her
support, had been killed by savages. She often said that she would gladly
die if she could harm the red men back, in return for her
suffering--which was not Christian doctrine, but was natural. She was
brooding at her fire, one winter evening, in wonder as to how one so weak
and old as she could be revenged, when her door was flung open and a
number of red men filled her cabin. She hardly changed countenance. She
did not rise. "You may take my life," she said, "for it is useless, now
that you have robbed it of all that made it worth living."

"H