Murmurs had begun to arise from the crowd, and they had begun to press in upon the accused. “Don’t crowd me!” he cried, his eyes bulging, for he saw in the faces about him the energy of attack which should have been directed against the ’possum all turned upon him. “I didn’t eat yo’ ol’ ’possum, I do’ lak ’possum nohow.” “Hang him,” said some one, and the murmur rose louder as the culprit began to be hustled. But the preacher’s voice rose above the storm. “Ca’m yo’se’ves, my brethren,” he said; “let us thank de Lawd dat one ’possum remains unto us. Brothah Holly has been put undah a gret temptation, an’ we believe dat he has fell; but it is a jedgment. I ought to knowed bettah dan to ’a’ trusted any colo’ed man wif fo’ ’possums. Let us not be ha’d upon de sinnah. We mus’ not be violent, but I tu’ns dis assembly into a chu’ch meetin’ of de brothahs to set on Brothah Holly’s case. In de mean time de sistahs will prepah de remainin’ ’possum.” The church-meeting promptly found Brother Holly guilty of having betrayed his trust, and expelled him in disgrace from fellowship with Mt. Pisgah church. The excellence of the one ’possum which the women prepared only fed their angry feelings, as it suggested what the whole four would have been; but the hungry men, women, and children who had foregone their Christmas dinners at home ate as cheerfully as possible, and when Mt. Pisgah’s congregation went home that day, salt pork was in great demand to fill out the void left by the meagre fare of Christmas ’possum. A FAMILY FEUD A FAMILY FEUD I wish I could tell you the story as I heard it from the lips of the old black woman as she sat bobbing her turbaned head to and fro with the motion of her creaky little rocking-chair, and droning the tale forth in the mellow voice of her race. So much of the charm of the story was in that voice, which even the cares of age had not hardened. [Illustration: OLD AUNT DOSHY.] It was a sunny afternoon in late November, one of those days that come like a backward glance from a reluctantly departing summer. I had taken advantage of the warmth and brightness to go up and sit with old Aunt Doshy on the little porch that fronted her cottage. The old woman had been a trusted house-servant in one of the wealthiest of the old Kentucky families, and a visit to her never failed to elicit some reminiscence of the interesting past. Aunt Doshy was inordinately proud of her family, as she designated the Venables, and was never weary of detailing accounts of their grandeur and generosity. What if some of the harshness of reality was softened by the distance through which she looked back upon them; what if the glamour of memory did put a halo round the heads of some people who were never meant to be canonised? It was all plain fact to Aunt Doshy, and it was good to hear her talk. That day she began:—