Every day and every night the little fly brought in a full report, over which Marse Charles gloated as a miser over gold; but at last even the devil’s emissary grew weary of roosting in precarious places, and considering that Marse Charles had broken faith by disposing of the box, was less and less vigilant, and finally cultivated a spirit of rebellion. * * * * * Now Demetria was blessed with an old mammy, as fine a blending of mother-wit and shrewdness as ever wore a Madras kerchief, and who was married to that Zacheus who dealt in charms and “cungers.” Every night since Demetria’s babyhood Mammy had drawn the bed-curtains for her mistress, and sitting in the same old chair, had fanned and told her stories until she fell asleep; but of late Demetria was restless, and the stories did not soothe. In vain Mammy shook the curtains and drew them farther back, then opened the French windows wide upon the broad veranda. In vain she brushed out the long yellow locks; Demetria still sighed, and would not close her eyes. “What ail my chile?” crooned Mammy, softly wielding her great palm-leaf, and forgetful that she was speaking to other than a child. “I’m miserable, Mammy, miserable, ever since the day of the meet. Something seems to be taking my strength. See how I have fallen away!” And the little figure in its white robes was small enough indeed. “Um!” crooned Mammy. “I gwine mek my chile some sassafac tea—dat mek her better! Hi! dar dat mizerbul fly ergin! I sho gwine git hit out ’fore I lets down de bar dis night. Don’ be ’feared, honey!” “It’s no use. I can’t sleep, Mammy!” said Demetria, fretfully. “Nebber min’,” said Mammy, as soft as a cradle-song; “yo’ be all right bimeby. Hain’t yo’ tell Marse Charles yo’ lub him? Hain’t yo’ done promus ter marry wid him whedder Marse Avery die or no? An’ hain’t Marse Charles des plum crazy ’bout yo’, an’ cain’t say ’good-bye’ ’fore he say ’howdy,’ fur de lub er yo’?” “Yes, yes,” said Demetria, wearily, “and yet I am not happy, Mammy.” “My Lord!—wid all dem di’munts an’ things? Yo’ is er mighty sp’ilt chile, honey! But I hope do it,” added Mammy, complacently. “Nebber min’, baby, yo’ be all right arter while; yo’ des narvous.” “Cuss dat fly!” said Mammy, under her breath, for the little thing eluded her at every turn, and, giving it up, Mammy softly fanned until Demetria moaned in uneasy slumber. “I gwine git ter de bottom er dis. Hain’t all right, sho ’nough. I been er-tryin’ nigh onter two weeks now, an’ I cain’t ketch dat fly nary time!” Demetria’s hand was under her pillow, as it had been on all of these restless nights. “Won’er what she got unner dar, po’ little gal!” Mammy tenderly drew the little hand from its hiding, and in its palm the devil’s snuff-box lay. Mammy eyed it curiously. “Mighty quare thing fur my chile ter hug up so close, fur she des hate snuff! Um! dat ole fly sho think dat box got sugar in it—Shoo!”