And with a perspective glance at his morning’s work, when the basket of chips would be very convenient, the rude boy stooped down to take possession of the prize. Rosalia held tight her treasure. He jerked it from her, and in doing so, tore her little tender arms with the rough flags of the old basket. Having lost his temper in the struggle, the boy then went to the chimney, and taking the tongs, scattered the blazing chips, and raking the damp rubbish from the corners, extinguished the fire. Then with his prize he marched out of the room. Rose was sobbing and wiping the blood from her wounded arm. Hagar was still and silent, but the fire was kindling in her dark eyes; her gipsy blood was rising; at last she started after him, overtook him half way down the stairs, and seized the basket; he pulled it from her hold and fled, she pursuing him into the kitchen. To end the matter, he went up to the chimney, turned up the basket, and shook down the chips into the fire. Her gipsy blood was up! She ran to him as he was stooping over his work of wanton cruelty, and giving him a sudden push, sent him into the fire. The basket was crushed under his hands, and saved them from being badly burnt. He struggled, recovered himself, and arose. Just at this moment Cumbo re-entered the kitchen, and Rosalia, who had followed her cousin, came in. “What’s de matter now?” inquired the old woman. Hagar was too proud and Rosalia too frightened to speak. Tar gave an exaggerated account of the whole affair, as he brushed the smut and ashes from his sleeves. He dwelt particularly on the _waste_ with which “de childer had burned up all de light wood for kindlin’.” Cumbo turned up the whites of her eyes in horror at the depredation. “It was only a few little chips that we picked up, and they were damp; and see how he scratched my arms!” said Rosalia, holding them up to view. Cumbo having sent in supper, felt herself in a better humor; and thought herself prepared to render judgment with marvellous impartiality and wisdom, which, seating herself, and resting her hands on her knees, she did to the following effect: “Tarquinus Perbus, you go right in house an’ wait on table. Massa Widders, he callin’ for you. An’ Rose, you putty little angel, you come here an’ sit on old mammy’s lap, and toast your poor little footy toes before dis nice fire; mammy’s got a warm biscuit for you in her bosom, too. An’ Hagar, you ugly, bad ting, go long right trait out dis here kitchen wid yourself. You’re so bad I can’t a-bear you—but ugly people always _is_ bad.” Now, if she had said bad people always are ugly, she might have come nearer the truth, or at least taught a better lesson. “I did not make myself, God made me,” said Hagar.