Old Miss came to the door and commanded me to bring a stick of wood to mend the parlor fire. When I went in with a log on my shoulder, I found Titine sitting by the fire, trying to amuse the little girl. "Get out of the way, Jessie," she cried. "Dan, let me help you ease it down." I was strong enough to have tossed the log in the air but I told her yes, and I caught at her hand as she stood close to lend her aid. She laughed and stepping back declared that I might help myself. I put the log into the fire-place and stood on the hearth to brush my coat. "You ought to be proud of your strength," she said. "That may be, and I ought to deplore my weakness." "Yes, you ought. Jessie, don't go near the fire." "And I do." "Then you are climbing toward firmer ground. Put down the tongs, Jessie." "The ground may be firm and yet slippery." "If salt were given in exchange for words, you might have enough to sell. Jessie, put down the cat; you'll get all covered with fleas." "Titine, I believe that hateful and unjust remark made by Old Miss has set you against me. You cleave to it as if it were a piece of wisdom inspired of the Lord." "But wasn't it the truth? And isn't there wisdom in all truth?" "No, it was not the truth. It was spite. She hates me and you ought to have sense enough to see it. But if truth were a diamond and sparkled in my favor, you would shut your eyes to it. I came to you with the devotion of a strong man. I showed you my heart. I threw it at your feet and let it flutter there, and so far from taking it up out of the dirt, you did not even look down upon it. You have no heart. An old woman killed it and left a senseless whim to vibrate in your breast. You could have made of me--" "Nothing," she broke in. "How could I make anything of a thing that could never belong to me? Jessie, you'll fall out of that rocking chair if you don't mind. I once told you that I have the instincts of a lady, and I have, and I will not turn upon those instincts and mock them." "But if you would only acknowledge that you care for me," I pleaded; "if you would only light a candle, call it hope and hold it aloft, no matter how far down the road, I could keep my eyes fastened upon it and live on faith." She looked at me, whether in pity or in scorn I could not tell. But I could gather no comfort from her words. "Flies scorch their wings in the candle lighted down the road," she said. At this moment Old Miss came into the room. "Why, gracious alive, why do you let that fire smoke so?" she cried. "Shove that log further back. I never saw as worthless a negro as you are. To bring a log in and throw it down right in front of the fire where it can do nothing but smoke! Go out. It makes me weary to look at you."