The blood of poor Marse Charles ran cold. What would he not give to please the sweet Demetria? He almost reached his hand to yield it, but the little fly buzzed hard within, and, starting with a shock, he hid it in his bosom. “A princess wore the bracelet once,” began Marse Charles. “It has a wonderful history. Make it more wonderful and wear it for me, sweet!” “But I would have the box!” “But it will make thee sneeze!” “Then I will sneeze! Your love means less than any bubble here if you shall hold so fast to such a trifling thing!” Then Demetria shed tears, and more reproaches followed, and Marse Charles, cold even to the marrow’s centre from fear, let loose the devil’s little fly and threw the box upon the grass. “How beautiful!” said Demetria, snatching it up; “but, Charles, you played me false; it holds no snuff, and cannot make me sneeze. I only thought to try you, but now I will not give it back again, to punish you for the teasing!” So Charles, restored, basked in the light of love, and comforted himself with the thought that Demetria soon would tire of the box. * * * * * There was fine sport and much merriment in the far wood, and such ado to make shelter when a thunder-storm came on. But the rain would not cease, and, in the cold drizzle which followed, the gay company, with limp gauderies and feathers, mounted for the return. But nothing damped the ardor of Marse Charles, and, as they rode, his hearty laughter, mingled with Demetria’s, fell upon the ears of the cavalcade. Marse Charles had made a scoop at something with his hand, and Demetria laughed again. “On my word, Mr. Charles, such grace it has seldom been my good fortune to see!” “A most persistent fly,” said Marse Charles, catching at it again, as he felt the cold clinging feet upon his forehead. Then, suddenly remembering, he was silent, and with reddening cheek he caught the little fly out of the rain into the folds of his cloak. * * * * * The days wore on, and, as the devil had promised, disasters, one close upon the heels of another, overtook the rival of Marse Charles. Now it was an ague, now a broken limb, now a fever—so fast they came, indeed, that he dared not try to reach his home between his woes; and, courteous to all men, Demetria salted his gruel, but made sweet eyes at Marse Charles. But all this time Marse Charles was troubled about the little fly. Demetria still treasured the box, and there was no spot in which to keep the little fly in safety. Marse Charles felt that it was a precious trust, and faith must be kept by a man of honor, though even with the devil. And sometimes, but for an opportune buzz, Marse Charles would have killed it for a common house pest, which always made him very serious.