“Cuss dat fly!” said Mammy, under her breath, for the little thing eluded her at every turn, and, giving it up, Mammy softly fanned until Demetria moaned in uneasy slumber.
“I gwine git ter de bottom er dis. Hain’t all right, sho ’nough. I been er-tryin’ nigh onter two weeks now, an’ I cain’t ketch dat fly nary time!”
Demetria’s hand was under her pillow, as it had been on all of these restless nights.
“Won’er what she got unner dar, po’ little gal!”
Mammy tenderly drew the little hand from its hiding, and in its palm the devil’s snuff-box lay. Mammy eyed it curiously.
“Mighty quare thing fur my chile ter hug up so close, fur she des hate snuff! Um! dat ole fly sho think dat box got sugar in it—Shoo!”
But curiosity was too much for Mammy, and she opened the lid, and the fly dropped down and nestled in the corner of the box. Mammy closed the lid with a snap, shutting the little fly in.
“Sumpen mighty quare ’bout dis. I gwine tek dis ter Zacheus!”
The whole plantation rang next day with the loss of the curious box, an heirloom and a token from Marse Charles to Demetria; but the box was not found, and Marse Charles wandered about, pale and ill at ease, for the little fly did not return.