the fire, shuffled the cards afresh, divided them into three piles, and
subjected them to the same careful and critical examination.

"I can't tell the day when I've seed the cards run this a-way," she said
after a while. "What is an' what ain't, I'll never tell you; but I know
what the cards sez."

"W'at does dey say, Miss Becky?" the negro inquired, in a tone the
solemnity of which was heightened by its eagerness.

"They er runnin' quare. These here that I'm a-lookin' at," said Miss
Becky, "they stan' for the past. Them there, they er the present; and
the t'others, they er the future. Here's a bundle"--tapping the ace of
clubs with her thumb--"an' here's a journey as plain as the nose on a
man's face. Here's Lucinda--"

"Whar she, Miss Becky?"

"Here she is--the queen of spades."

Free Joe grinned. The idea seemed to please him immensely.

"Well, well, well!" he exclaimed. "Ef dat don't beat my time! De queen
er spades! W'en Lucindy year dat hit'll tickle 'er, sho'!"

Miss Becky continued to run the cards back and forth through her
fingers.

"Here's a bundle an' a journey, and here's Lucinda. An' here's ole Spite
Calderwood."

She held the cards toward the negro and touched the king of clubs.

"De Lord he'p my soul!" exclaimed Free Joe with a chuckle. "De faver's
dar. Yesser, dat's him! W'at de matter 'long wid all un um, Miss
Becky?"

The old woman added the second pile of cards to the first, and then the
third, still running them through her fingers slowly and critically. By
this time the piece of pine in the fireplace had wrapped itself in a
mantle of flame, illuminating the cabin and throwing into strange relief
the figure of Miss Becky as she sat studying the cards. She frowned
ominously at the cards and mumbled a few words to herself. Then she
dropped her hands in her lap and gazed once more into the fire. Her
shadow danced and capered on the wall and floor behind her, as if,
looking over her shoulder into the future, it could behold a rare
spectacle. After a while she picked up the cup that had been turned on
the hearth. The coffee-grounds, shaken around, presented what seemed to
be a most intricate map.

"Here's the journey," said Miss Becky, presently; "here's the big road,
here's rivers to cross, here's the bundle to tote." She paused and
sighed. "They hain't no names writ here, an' what it all means I'll
never tell you. Cajy, I wish you'd be so good as to han' me my pipe."

"I hain't no