sked Mrs. Collins.

"Our old Aunt Charity and Uncle Richard that used to live here."

"Oh! You mean them old darkies. They moved away the year we come here.
They--"

"Mammy, I want to know her name," insisted Lizzie, in an undertone.
"And I want to see her doll in my own hands."

"My name is Anne Lewis," Anne informed her. "My doll is named Mrs. Emily
Patterson but I call her Honey-Sweet."

"That's a mighty pretty dress," said Lizzie, admiringly.

"I made it, all but the buttonholes," Anne answered proudly. "Martha did
those."

"Do her shoes really, truly come off?" asked Lizzie.

"Yes, they do. And her stockings, too. Look here."

The two girls played happily together with Honey-Sweet until Mrs.
Collins declared that Anne was tired and tucked her away with Lizzie in
a trundle-bed.

"I dunno when I've set up so late," the good woman said to her husband,
as she wound up the clock. "It's near nine o'clock. But one thing I tell
you, Peter Collins, afore I get a mite of sleep--Nobody's going to send
that po' child back to the 'sylum she's runned away from. Tain't no use
for you to say a word."

"Is I said a word?" asked Mr. Collins.

"That po' thing ain't goin' to be drug back to no 'sylum," pursued his
wife. "She shall stay here long as she's a mind to--till her folks come
for her--or till she gets grown--or something. And she shall have all
she wants to eat, sho as my name's Lizabeth Collins. I've heard tell of
them 'sylums. They say the chillen don't have nothin' to eat or wear but
what folks give 'em. Think of them with their po' little empty stomachs
settin' waitin' for somebody to think to send 'em dinner! I'm goin' to
make a jar full of gingercakes fust thing in the mornin' and put it on
the pantry shelf where that child can he'p herself.--Anne, uh!
Anne!--She's 'sleep. I jest wondering if she'd rather have gingercakes
or tea-cakes dusted with sugar and cinnamon. Peter Collins! I tell you,
you got to work and pervide for yo' chillen. I couldn't rest in my
grave if I thought one of them'd ever have to go to a 'sylum. I see you
last week give a knife to that Hawley boy.--What if he was name for
you?--I don't keer if it didn't cost but ten cent. You'll land in the
po' house and yo' chillen in 'sylums if you throw away yo' money on
tother folks' chillens.--Peter, fust thing in the morning you catch me a
chicken to fry for that po' child's breakfast. And remind me--to git
out--a jar of honey," she concluded