Hagar went into the kitchen, which she found vacant. Cumbo had gone to the spring. Taking a coal of fire in the tongs, and seizing the broom, she fled up stairs into the attic, where little Rose was already busied in clearing the damp rubbish from the fire-place. She received the coal from Hagar, and kneeling down, placed it on the hearth, collected around it the smallest chips, and blew it. A little blaze soon flickered on the hearth. She continued to add more chips as the weak flame would bear it. In the meantime Hagar had swept up the room. The storm had subsided. The little fire was burning cheeringly. The children drew the old trunk before it, and sat down, their arms around each other’s waist; their little toes stretched out to the fire; their countenances wearing that satisfied consciousness of having toiled for and won the comforts they were enjoying. And after all, it was but a little fire in a dreary old attic. They were not permitted to enjoy this long. Steps were heard approaching their retreat. The door opened, and Tar, or as he called himself, Tarquinius Superbus—the colored boy of all work—entered. Rose ran to her basket of chips, and placed herself before it. “What you dem do wid dat broom you stole from de kitchen, you little thieves, you? Nex’ time you gim me trouble for come up here arter you dem’s nonsense, I tell Mrs. Widders, an’ ef dat don’t do I tell _Mr._ Widders—_you_ see!” With that he espied the broom, and in going around to take it, his eyes fell upon the little fire, and the small basket of chips. Poor Rose looked guilty and dismayed, but held desperately on to her property. Hagar watched him with a steady eye. “My good gracious ‘live—did any _soul_ ever see de like? What _will_ Mr. Widders say? A-wastin’ all de wood! Here’s chips enough to kindle all de fires in de mornin’.”