his teeth flashed fire. An’ sometimes Satan would lean over and mighty nigh p’int out ter Clem which kyerd ter play. An’ pa’son say his eyes war opened agin.” “’Pears ter me they war stretched toler’ble wide a-fust,” grumbled Clem. Although this graphic detail was no news to him, he was beginning to look much disaffected. He mechanically moved away from the anvil upon which Satan had made himself so much at home. He came and stood outside, with arms still folded, leaning against the door. “An’ pa’son’s eyes war opened anew,” Bassett drawled on. “An’ thar, he say, whilst the wrastlin’ war a-goin’ on, an’ the dancer war a-dancin’ an’ a-shakin’ his foot all around the floor, an’ the fiddler war a-playin’ an’ the fire war a-flarin’ red an’ a-flamin’ white over ’em all, an’ Clem war a-laffin’ an’ a-hollerin’, tickled ter death, an’ a-playin’ his kyerds, an Satan war a-lookin’ over his shoulder an’ grinnin’ till the smoke shot out’n his nose, an’ eyes, an’ ears, an’ ye could see him spit fire wunst in a while, the back winder o’ the forge opened slow. An’ thar stood on the outside—who d’ye reckon?” “Oh, shucks!” said Clem uneasily. The others said nothing, and the narrator went on:— “The back winder o’ the shop opened, an’ thar, holdin’ the batten shutter in his han’, plain,—it bein’ so dark ahint him an’ so light inside,—war Clem hisself! Like he mought look in death, white, an’ solemn, an’ stony, a-gazin’ in on hisself ez he looks in life, hearty, an’ sunburnt, an’ laffin’, an’ a-playin’ o’ kyerds, with the devil, tickled ter death, peepin’ over his shoulder. An’ pa’son say the bleached, white, dead Clem ketched his eye of a suddint, an’ clap! bang! the winder war shet, an’ thar warn’t nuthin’ settin’ on the anvil, an’ Clem war a-gapin’, an’ a-stretchin’ his arms, an’ sayin’ ’twar bed-time, an’ tellin’ that Jeemes boy ter quit playin’ the fool with that bellows, else he’d shoe him all round with red-hot horse-shoes.” Teck Jepson listened in silence, his absorbed eyes upon the ground, now and then lifting them to the narrator’s face with a glance of excited surprise. The person most nearly interested in the chronicle spoke abruptly:— “Pa’son Donnard never see sech ez that, sure enough; he air sorter moon-eyed, ef the truth war knowed. An’ ez the boys war a-dancin’ an’ a-cavortin’, he jes’ _’lowed_ he see it.” “Pa’son Donnard wouldn’t be the fust, ef he _did_ see the devil,” argued Teck Jepson. “Plenty o’ them the Bible tells about seen him.” The blacksmith’s eyes had no merry twinkle in them now. He looked off loweringly at the scene, so familiar to him in its multitudinous phases, as he spoke. “Waal, I don’t b’lieve pa’son see nuthin’. Satan don’t lope round in Broomsaidge none ginerally; never war seen afore. Takes pa’son ter view him. An’ I ain’t dead,” he added, with a live insistence. “An’ yit he seen me dead.” “Ye will be some day,” said Jepson bluntly. Sanders looked down, darkly frowning.