The butterflies possessed a wonderful fascination—the white and yellow—and the reed mats would drop from her hands in forgetful admiration. But when the brown ones hovered near her, poising on gorgeous velvety wings, the Other Maumer would shiver and cover up her head—“De soul er Cindy’s baby, oh, my Gord! kim back ter claim his place, er ’cusin’ me er de lie! Oh, my Gord!” [Illustration: “‘FLY, FLY,’ SHE WHISPERED”] How she would fight the brown butterflies away, if they alighted on her doorstep! And carefully she gathered and crushed every wild flower that grew around her cabin, fearful lest they should prove to be an attraction. But the brown butterflies came and came; in swarms they filled and circled the Other Maumer’s cabin, by morning, noon, and evening. Then the nets hung on the racks unmended, the reeds dried unwoven, and the hands of the Other Maumer fluttered over the little heaps of red clay that she brought from beside the new well, to fashion into rude butterflies with outstretched wings. Scores and scores were drying in the sun, and yet the busy fingers worked nervously. “Fly, fly,” she whispered, “an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” * * * * * The cold moon shone through the cracks of the Other Maumer’s cabin; the Other Maumer did not like the moon; even in her sleep she was always hiding something from it, deep and dark, but the moon could always find it. To-night it was the clay butterflies, and she woke with a start to search for them. Not one could she find in the cabin, and with a cry of rage she wrung her hands; “Dey tryin’ ter steal de soul er Cindy’s baby! Dey done stole ’em fum me; dey done stole ’em!” Then she remembered that she had carried her apron full to the river-bank, and had left them on the cotton bales to dry. “Lef’ ’em ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” she assured herself; “but I cain’t lose none uv ’em!” and with her knotted hickory stick in one hand and a bunch of river reeds in the other, the Other Maumer hobbled slowly down the road. * * * * * It wanted but little to the holiday season, though Ole Marse had held his cotton back for a great “deal.” But now that he had sent word from New Orleans to ship it on, the old storehouse was full to overflowing, and it was piled all along the levee waiting for the boat, for Ole Marse had never made a better crop. Perched upon one of the bales that lined the levee, conjuring with the recovered butterflies in the full of the moon sat the Other Maumer, happy in the abandonment of the moment. [Illustration: “SHE CAME ON BAT’S WINGS”] All her world was asleep; even the guards stationed around the storehouse had gone off duty; and where was the need of them? People did not steal cotton, and then the boat was coming in the morning. Tenderly the Other Maumer nursed her butterflies, careful of their frail, sun-baked wings—hiding them in her apron, her bosom, and now in her faded turban.