MRS. DURHAM, the Doctor wants you,” said Charlie when McLeod’s footfall had died away.

“Charlie, dear, why don’t you call me ‘Mama’—surely you love me a little wee bit, don’t you?” she asked, taking the boy’s hand tenderly in hers.

“Yes’m,” he replied hanging his head.

“Then do say Mama. You don’t know how good it would be in my ears.”

“I try to but it chokes me,” he half whispered, glancing timidly up at her. “Let me call you Aunt Margaret, I always wanted an aunt and I think your name Margaret’s so sweet,” he shyly added.

She kissed him and said, “All right, if that’s all you will give me.” She passed on into the library where the Preacher waited her.

“My dear, I’ve just given young McLeod a piece of my mind. I wanted to say to you that you are entirely mistaken in his character. He’s a bad egg. I know all the facts about his treachery. He’s as smooth a liar as I’ve met in years.”

“With all his brute nature, there’s some good in him,” she persisted.

“Well, it will stay in him. He will never let it get out.”

“All right, have your way about it for the time. We’ll see who is right in the long run. Now I’ve a more pressing and tougher problem for your solution.”

“What is it?”

“Dick.”

“What’s he done this time?”

“He steals everything he can get his hands on.”

“He is a puzzle.”

“He’s the greatest liar I ever saw,” she continued. “He simply will not tell the truth if he can think up a lie in time. I’d say run him off the place, but for Charlie. He seems to love the little scoundrel. I’m afraid his influence over Charlie will be vicious, but it would break the child’s heart to drive him away. What shall we do with him?”

The Preacher laughed. “I give it up, my dear, you’ve got beyond my depth now. I don’t know whether he’s got a soul. Certainly the very rudimentary foundations of morals seem lacking. I believe you could take a young ape and teach him quicker. I leave him with you. At present it’s a domestic problem.”

“Thanks, that’s so encouraging.”

Dick was a puzzle and no mistake about it. But to Charlie his rolling mischievous eyes, his cunning fingers and his wayward imagination were unfailing fountains of life. He found every bird’s nest within two miles of town. He could track a rabbit almost as swiftly and surely as a hound. He could work like fury when he had a mind to, and loaf a half day over one row of the garden when he didn’t want to work, which was his chronic condition.

When the revival season set in for the negroes in the summer, the days of sorrow began for householders. Every negro in the community became absolutely worthless and remained so until the emotional insanity attending their meetings wore off.

Aunt Mary, Mrs. Durham’s cook, got salvation over again every summer with increasing power and increasing degeneration in her work. Some nights she got home at two o’clock and breakfast was not ready until nine. Some nights she didn’t get home at all, and Mrs. Durham had to get breakfast herself.

It was a hard time for Dick who had not yet experienced religion, and on whom fell the brunt of the extra work and Mrs. Durham’s fretfulness besides.

“I tell you what less do, Charlie!” he cried one day. “Less go down ter dat nigger chu’ch, en bus’ up de meetin’! I’se gettin’ tired er dis.”

“How’ll you do it?”

“I show you somefin’?” He reached under his shirt next to his skin, and pulled out Dr. Graham’s sun glass.

“Where’d you get that, Dick?”

“Foun’ it whar er man lef’ it.” He walled his eyes solemnly.

“Des watch here when I turns ’im in de sun. I kin set dat pile er straw er fire wid it!”

“You mustn’t set the church afire!” warned Charlie.

“Naw, chile, but I git up in de gallery, en when ole Uncle Josh gins ter holler en bawl en r’ar en charge, I fling dat blaze er light right on his bal’ haid, en I set him afire sho’s you bawn!”

“Dick, I wouldn’t do it,” said Charlie, laughing in spite of himself.

Charlie refused to accompany him. But Dick’s mind was set on the necessity of this work of reform. So in the afternoon he slipped off without leave and quietly made his way into the gallery of the Negro Baptist church.

The excitement was running high. Uncle Josh had preached one sermon an hour in length, and had called up the mourners. At least fifty had come forward. The benches had been cleared for five rows back from the pulpit to give plenty of room for the mourners to crawl over the floor, walk back and forth and shout when they “came through,” and for their friends to fan them.

This open place was covered with wheat straw to keep the mourners off the bare floor, and afford some sort of comfort for those far advanced in mourning, who went into trances and sometimes lay motionless for hours on their backs or flat on their faces.

The mourners had kicked and shuffled this straw out to the edges and the floor was bare. Uncle Josh had sent two deacons out for more straw.

In the meantime he was working himself up to another mighty climax of exhortation to move sinners to come forward.

“Come on ter glory you po, po sinners, en flee ter de Lamb er God befo de flames er hell swaller you whole! At de last great day de Sperit ’ll flash de light er his shinin’ face on dis ole parch up sinful worl’, en hit ’ll ketch er fire in er minute, an de yearth ’ll melt wid furvient heat! Whar ’ll you be den po tremblin’ sinner? Whar ’ll you be when de flame er de Sperit smites de moon and de stars wid fire, en dey gin ter drap outen de sky en knock big holes in de burnin’ yearth? Whar ’ll you be when de rocks melt wid dat heat, en de sun hide his face in de black smoke dat rise fum de pit?”

Moans and groans and shrieks, louder and louder filled the air. Uncle Josh paused a moment and looked for his deacons with the straw. They were just coming up the steps with a great armful over their heads.

“What’s de matter wid you breddern! Fetch on dat wheat straw! Here’s dese tremblin’ souls gwine down inter de flames er hell des fur de lak er wheat straw!”

The brethren hurried forward with the wheat straw, and just as they reached Uncle Josh standing perspiring in the midst of his groaning mourners, Dick flashed from the gallery a stream of dazzling light on the old man’s face and held it steadily on his bald head. Josh was too astonished to move at first. He was simply paralysed with fear. It was all right to talk about the flame of the Spirit, but he wasn’t exactly ready to run into it. Suddenly he clapped his hands on the top of his head and sprang straight up in the air yelling in a plain everyda............