hoarse on the window-sill; 'Mazin' Grace was lost
in the rapture of the moment, and refused to consider consequences. She
traced the pattern of the embroidery with her stubby finger, she rubbed
the silk against her cheek, and even tied one stocking around her head
and stood on tiptoe to see the result in the mirror. The more she
handled them the more reckless she became.

"I 'spect I 'se gwine to try dese heah stockin's on!" she said, with a
giggle, as she drew the silken lengths over her bare, dusty feet. "Gee
Bob! Ain't them scrumptious! I look lak a shore-'nuff circus lady!"

[Illustration: "CATCHING HER RAGGED SKIRTS IN EITHER HAND, SHE BOWED LOW
TO HER IMAGE."]

She tipped the mirror in order to get the full reflection, and stood for
a moment entranced. Then catching her ragged skirts in either hand,
she bowed low to her image, and, after cutting a formal and elaborate
pigeonwing, settled down to a shuffle that shook the floor. Music and
motion were as much a part of 'Mazin' Grace as her brown skin and her
white teeth. All Aunt Melvy's piety had failed to convince her of the
awful wickedness of "shaking her foot" and "singing reel chunes." She
danced now with utter abandon, and the harder she danced the louder she
sang:

"Suzanne Goffin, don't you cry;
Take dat apron from your eye.
Don't let de niggers see you sigh;
You'll git a pahtner by an' by."

The small figure with its flying pigtails swayed and swung, and the pink
legs darted in and out. Backward, forward, right glide, left glide, two
skips sidewise. Her breath was almost gone, but she rallied her forces
for a grand finale. With a curtsy to the bedpost and hands all around,
she dashed into the rollicking ecstasy of the "Mobile Buck":

"Way up yonder in de moon,
Yaller gal lickin' a silver spoon.
Cynthy, my darlin', who tol' you so?
Cynthy, my darlin', how do you know?"

As she dropped panting on the floor, something arrested her attention.
She held up her head and sniffed the air. It was a familiar odor that
roused her conscience as nothing else could have done. Something burning
usually meant that she had failed to watch the stove, and that
catastrophe usually meant a whipping. She scrambled to her feet and ran
to the window. Over across the road, the big barn where Mr. Tracy stored
his grain was wrapped in flames. The wind was blowing from that
direction, and it fanned the smoke into 'Mazin' Grace's eyes.

"Gee! Dat was a spark