Swiftly the work went on, and higher and higher rose the mysterious voice, urging to quicker action by prayer and execration, until the negroes, nerved to the limits of human endurance by superstitious fear, pushed forward until they felt their sinews crack. “One mo’ time, heave ahead, boys!” continued the voice; then the work was discontinued, for the white flame leaped up like a living torch, lighting even the river with its weird splendor. “Wuk, men, wuk, fur de soul er Cindy’s baby!” cried the voice, now rising in a wail. Then a horror seized upon the negroes, and the men rushed forward to the rescue, for on the roof of the burning storehouse, now revealed through the sickening glare, stood the Other Maumer, waving a bunch of river reeds. “Look! look!” she shouted, reaching for the scurrying sparks; “de butterflies done come back—dey done come back!” Then folding her arms and smiling, as though she held a child, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!” The picture of the past had been photographed for an instant upon the disordered brain. It was useless to try to save her; again and again the willing hands were driven back by the heat. Higher and higher crept the flames around her, but, oblivious of life or death, the bent figure swayed and hugged in ecstasy the dream of the recovered soul. Then a gust swept through the rifled storehouse, the beams quivered, and the cumbersome roof fell in, smothering the flame, and leaving the levee in utter darkness. It was from Henry’s throat, deep and tremulous, that the death-song rose, joined in by the treble of the women. The wondering Cindy knelt in the sand and hid her face. Then, as the truth broke in upon her consciousness, Cely snatched a sleeping child from the arms of the kneeling Cindy, and a wild note of joy rose high above the dirge. STOLEN FIRE “Dey done got hit all wrong!” Mammy looked across the room to where the children were quietly playing, then knitted her brows and tenderly caressed the bosom of the Colonel’s shirt with her iron. “Brer Bailey hain’t got no call ter ’low dat niggers is ’v’luted fum Afiker monkeys, fur dey ’v’lutes back inter monkeys, sho’ mun!” “What did you say, Mammy?” asked Fred, who had been playing in the fire, holding his stick aloft, and eagerly scanning the shining face for a possible story. “Tell me and Fred a tale,” lisped Margie, outlining her toe upon the spotless kitchen floor with the end of her charred stick. “If yo’ chillens don’ quit playin’ in de fire, I lay I gwine mek Miss Margret whup yo’ bofe when she come fum up-town—see if I don’t!” and Mammy rolled her eyes ferociously behind her brass specs, at which the children laughed and teased the more. “What about monkeys, Mammy? Go on!” said Fred. “Back into monkeys!” echoed Margie. “Go on!” But Mammy deliberately tested an iron, as the children waited anxiously, then she lifted the expectant Margie upon one end of her board.