"Did you ever see a devil?" asks Mr. Potts, in a sepulchral tone. "A what?" exclaim Cecil and Molly, in a breath. "A devil," repeats he, unmoved. "I don't mean our own particular old gentleman, who has been behaving so sweetly to-night, but a regular _bona fide_ one." "Are you a spiritualist?" Cecil asks with awe. "Nothing half so paltry. There is no deception about my performance. It is simplicity itself. There is no rapping, but a great deal of powder. Have you ever seen one?" "A devil? Never." "Should you like to?" "Shouldn't I!" says Cecil, with enthusiasm. "Then you shall. It won't be much, you know, but it has a pretty effect, and anything will be less deadly than sitting here listening to the honeyed speeches of our host. I will go and prepare my work, and call you when it is ready." In twenty minutes he returns and beckons them to come; and, rising, both girls quit the drawing-room. With much glee Mr. Potts conducts them across the hall into the library, where they find all the chairs and the centre table pushed into a corner, as though to make room for one soup-plate which occupies the middle of the floor. On this plate stands a miniature hill, broad at the base and tapering at the summit, composed of blended powder and water, which Mr. Potts has been carefully heating in an oven during his absence until, according to his lights, it has reached a proper dryness. "Good gracious! what is it?" asks Molly. "Powder," says Potts. "I hope it won't go off and blow us all to bits," says Cecil, anxiously. "It will go off, certainly, but it won't do any damage," replies their showman, with confidence; "and really it is very pretty while burning. I used to make 'em by hundreds when I was a boy, and nothing ever happened except once, when I blew the ear off my father's coachman." This is not reassuring. Molly gets a little closer to Cecil, and Cecil gets a little nearer to Molly. They both sensibly increase the distance between them and the "devil." "Now I am going to put out the lamp," says Plantagenet, suiting the action to the word and suddenly placing them in darkness. "It don't look anything if there is light to overpower its own brilliancy." Striking a match, he applies it to the little black mountain, and in a second it turns into a burning one. The sparks fly rapidly upward. It seems to be pouring its fire in little liquid streams all down its sides. Cecil and Molly are in raptures. "It is Vesuvius," says the former. "It is Mount Etna," says the latter, "except much better, because they don't seem to have any volcanoes nowadays. Mr. Potts, you deserve a prize medal for giving us such a treat." "Plantagenet, my dear, I didn't believe it was in you," says Cecil. "Permit me to compliment you on your unprecedented success." Presently, however, they slightly alter their sentiments. Every school-boy knows how overpowering is the smell of burnt powder.