Mandy Ann heard, gave one glance over her shoulder, saw who was following her, and began at once to run, her bare feet and ankles throwing up the sand, and her sunbonnet falling from her head down her back, where it flapped from side to side as she ran.  She remembered what Ted had said of the stranger, who might be thinking of buying her; this was possible after all, as he had said he wanted her, and though her home in the clearing was not one of luxury, it was one of ease and indolence, and she had no desire for a new one—­certainly not with this man whose face did not attract her.  Just why she ran, she did not know.  It was of no use to appeal to ole missus, who would not know whether she belonged to her or some one else.  Miss Dory was her only hope.  With promises of future good behavior and abstinence from pilfering and lying, and badness generally, she might enlist her sympathy and protection till Jake came home, when all would be right.  So she sped on like a deer, glancing back occasionally to see the stranger following her with rapid strides which, however, did not avail to overtake her.  The afternoon was very warm—­the road sandy and uneven—­and he soon gave up the chase, wondering why the girl ran so fast, as if afraid of him.  The last sight he had of her was of her woolly head, turning off from the road to the right, where it disappeared behind some thick undergrowth.  Ted had said, “Turn at the grave,” and he walked on till he reached the spot, and stood by the low railing enclosing a sunken grave, whether of man or woman he could not tell, the lettering on the discolored stone was so obscure.  Studying it very carefully, he thought he made out “Mrs.” before the moss-blurred name.

“A woman,” he said, with a feeling how terrible it must be to be buried and left alone in that dreary, sandy waste, with no human habitation nearer than the Brock House, and no sound of life passing by, except from the same place, unless—­and he started, as he noticed for the first time what Ted had said was the worst road in Florida, and what was scarcely more than a footpath leading off to the right, and to the clearing, of course—­and he must follow it past tangled weeds and shrubs, and briers, and dwarf palmettoes, stumps of which impeded his progress.

Mandy Ann had entirely disappeared, but here and there in the sand he saw her footprints, the toes spread wide apart, and knew he was right.  Suddenly there came a diversion, and he leaned against a tree and breathed hard and fast, as one does when a shock comes unexpectedly.  His ear had caught the sound of voices at no great distance from him.  A negro’s voice—­Mandy Ann’s, he was sure—­eager, excited, and pleading; and another, soft and low, and reassuring, but wringing the sweat from him in great drops, and making his heart beat rapidly.  He knew who was with Mandy Ann, and that she, too, was hurrying on to the clearing, still in the distance.  Had there been any doubt of her identity, it would