“Unc’ Cæsar ain’ say er word, but he taken er live chunk fum de hearth an’ sot fire ter de cabin, an’ es she blaze up high he mek passes wid his long arms an’ say sumpen low, mumblin’ lack. Den when de blaze ’gin ter die down he taken ’Lish’s kivers an’ flings’ em on, an’ es de fire clomb high ergin he snatch ever’ rag dat ’Lish got on him an’ flings ’em on, an’ swing he long arms ober he head; den, des es de flames lick de highes’, he taken de rope dat he mek ’Lish creep down ter de bayou ter fin’ an’ fling hit on, an’ dar were er power er quare-lookin’ smoke in de Quarters, an’ all de niggers kim er runnin’ an’ b’ar witness. “Den ’Lish, des es naked as er new-borned baby, fall down an’ foam an’ foam at de mouf, but Unc’ Cæsar won’ let nobody tech him. “Dey all stan’ an’ wait, des er hol’in’ dey brefs ter see what gwine happin, an’ bimeby de blaze hit die an’ de smoke cl’ar ’way, an’ dar wa’n’t nuffin lef’ but er little pile er ashes, an’ de niggers falls ter whisperin’, ercusin’ Unc’ Cæsar fur burnin’ up po’ sick ’Lish’s cabin an’ his kivers; when Unc’ Cæsar he p’int one long arm wid er long, shakin’ finger, an’ say: ’Look!’—an’, bless goodness! right dar in de middle er de pile er hot ashes dat des still er-smould’rin’, sot de berry same ole black cat, des er-grinnin’ fitten ter bust. “De niggers dey was skeered, an’ dey ain’ know what ter do, but dey fotch one shout fur ’glory!’ an’ dat nigger ’Lish he fall ter prayin’ good, ’case he know dat de cuss er de debil was offen him now, an’ de soul an’ de body was free.” ’LIZA “Dar wa’n’t no tickler pusson nowhar ’n ’Liza’s Maw, Bithie,” said Mammy, as she drew the basket of wool within reach and took up her cards. “Dar wa’n’t no ’tickler pusson ’n Bithie, slave time ner free; but de way dat ’Liza git ’way wid her one time were er caution. “‘Liza hain’t nebber been seed but oncet sence, nuther, an’ den hit were only fur er minute, an’ she didn’ speak ter nobody, ner gib out nuffin, but des look plum mizerbul an’ po’ly. Mus’ be mighty ole now, if she’s libin’, which I ’specs she am, fur Unc’ ’Jah say dat bein’ de way dat ’Liza git ter be by her own sinnin’, dey cain’t ebber die, much es dey wanter, an’ I knows dat wharebber ’Liza am, dat she shore wanter die,” added Mammy, mysteriously, as the long soft roll grew under her manipulation. There was a chorus of questions from the quilters who bent over the frame, but Mammy freed the roll and laid fresh wool between her cards before she spoke again. “A-a-h, lawsy!—dis ole worl’ hain’t no better ’n hit uster was, but I don’ spec’ de Lord gwine let hit git no wusser—he des gwine min’ his own bus’ness, an’ let hit clean hitself lack mos’ t’ings in natur’ does!” “Tell us about ’Liza, Mammy!” came in chorus from the quilt.