It was a fantastic, weird, almost spookish tale,--the spectres she had seen were so real to her that the telling made them seem almost so to the rest, and beyond that, the girl herself, so like a young witch, with her shadowy eyes and furtive glances, added to the illusion. But now came a diversion, for Levi freshened the fire, and at a nod from Angie, Ray brought forth his banjo. It was his one pet foible, and it went with him everywhere, and now, with time and place so in accord, he was glad to exhibit his talent. He was not an expert,--a few jigs and plantation melodies composed his repertory,--but with the moonlight glinting through the spruce boughs, the river murmuring near, somehow one could not fail to catch the quaint humor of "Old Uncle Ned," "Jim Crack Corn," and the like, and see the two dusky lovers as they floated down the "Tombigbee River," and feel the pathos of "Nellie Grey" and "Old Kentucky Home." Ray sang fairly well and in sympathy with each theme. To Angie and the rest it was but ordinary; but to this waif, who never before had heard a banjo or a darky song, it was marvellous. Her face lit up with keen interest, her eyes grew misty at times, and once two tears stole down her cheeks. For an hour Ray was the centre of interest, and then Angie arose. "Come, Chip," she said pleasantly, "it's time to go to bed, and you are to share my tent." "I'd rather not," the girl replied bluntly. "I ain't fit. I kin jist ez well curl 'longside o' the fire." But Angie insisted and the girl followed her into the tent. Here occurred another incident that must be related. Angie, always devout, and somewhat puritanical, was one who never forgot her nightly prayer, and now, when ready for slumber, she knelt on the bed of fir twigs, and by the light of one small candle offered her usual petition, while Chip watched her with wide and wondering eyes. As might be expected, that waif was mentioned, and with deep feeling. "Do ye s'pose God heard ye?" she queried with evident candor, when Angie ceased. "Why, certainly," came the earnest answer; "God hears all prayers." "And do the spites hear 'em?" "There are no such creatures as 'spites,'" answered Angie, severely; "you only imagine them, and what this Indian has told you is superstition." "But I've seen 'em, hundreds on 'em, big and little," returned the girl, stoutly. Angie looked at her with pity. "Put that notion out of your head, once for all," she said, almost sternly. "It is only a delusion, and no doubt told to scare you." And poor Chip, conscious that perhaps she had sinned in speech, said no more.