I8G TENANTS OF AN OLD FARM. 



have been .seized l)y the strange instinct of migration, 

 and are being swept by its resistless force into the cur- 

 rents of a new and independent existence. And 

 thereby hangs tlie tale which this chapter is in part to 

 unfold. 



On such a morning as I have described Dan entered 

 the kitchen precincts with a rueful face. 



" Wat's the matter ?" asked Sarah sharply. "You 

 look like the final judgment had come. Is your ole 

 woman dead, or 've ye lost your 'baccy pouch ?" 



" Dar's no 'casion for levity, Sairy Ann," said the old 

 man solemnly. "T'lngs 's bad null", and y '11 see it 

 byne by." 



" Goody gracious me ! Do sj^eak up, man, and let 's 

 know the wust on 't at wanst ! Wat 's happened ?" 



" Wy sumfin mighty awful 's happen'd, I cl'ar to 

 goodness dat Mars Mayfield's done gone — cl'ar — crazy!" 

 Dan lowered his voice, and spoke in a husky sort of a 

 growl which he doubtless meant for a whisper. 



"Crazy?" screamed Sarah. "Wat on airth — " She 

 stopped short in her sentence, for at that moment the 

 Mistress entered the room. She had heard the ominous 

 word on Sarah's lips and saw the terrified look upon 

 both countenances. Iler face blanched, and she sank 

 into a chair overcome by an indefinable dread of some 

 unknown peril. Her thoughts had run directly to her 

 husband, who an hour or more ago had gone into the 

 fields. Many readers will sympathize with the ISIis- 

 tress, though none, perhaps, can give any belter reason 

 than she why such unreasonable anticipations of evil to 



