All eyes were turned to Mary. She looked into the face of the player; his eyes challenged hers and she responded, instinctively the dusky figures shrank to the wall and alone, undaunted, the slender girl stood in the middle of the deserted floor. Edward played the gypsy dance, increasing the time until it was a passionate melody, and Mary began. Her lithe form swayed and bent and glided in perfect response to the player, the little feet twinkling almost unseen upon the sandy boards. Such grace, such allurements, he had never before dreamed of. And finally, breathless, she stood one moment, her hand uplifted, the triumphant interpreter of his melody. With mischievous smile, she sprang from the door, her face turned backward for one instant. Releasing the instrument, Edward followed in perfect forgetfulness of self and situation. But when, puzzled, he appeared alone at the opposite door, he heard her laugh in the distance--and memory overwhelmed him with her tide. He was pale and startled and the company was laughing. He cast a handful of money among them and in the confusion that followed made his escape. Mary was waiting demurely in the path. "It was perfect," he said, breaking the awkward silence. "Any one could dance to that music," was her reply. Silently they began their return. An old woman sat in her cabin door, a fire of chunks making a red spot in the gloom behind. "We go to-morrow, Aunt Sylla. Is it for good or ill?" The woman was old and wrinkled. She was the focus of all local superstition; one of the ante-bellum voodoos. If her pewter spoons had been gold, her few beads diamonds, she might have left the doors unbarred without danger. Mary had paused and asked the question to draw out the odd character for her friend. "In the woods the clocks of heaven strike 11! Jeffers, who was never born, speaks out," was the strange reply. "In the woods," said Mary, thoughtfully, "the dew drips tinkling from the leaves; Jeffers, the redbird, was never born, but hatched. What does he say, Aunt Sylla?" The woman was trying to light her pipe. Absence of tobacco was the main cause of her failure. Edward crushed a cigar and handed it to her. When she had lighted it she lifted the blazing chunk and her faded eyes looked steadily upon the young man. "He says the gentleman will come some day and bring much tobacco." The girl laughed, but the darkness hid her blushes. "In the meantime," said Edward cheerfully, placing a silver coin in her hand, "you can tell your friend Jeffers that you are supplied." The negro's prophecy is usually based on shrewd guesses. Sylla grasped the coin with the eagerness of a child receiving a new doll. She pointed her finger at him and looked to the girl. Mary laughed. "Keep still a moment, Mr. Morgan," she said, "I must rob you."