of cookies and a mug of milk, and then Fidelia sat in her
mother's lap and ate and drank and felt comforted. But after the raisins
had been finally purchased, Cynthia's bonnet picked up out of the dust
and shaken, the little squeaking wagon stowed under the seat of the
buggy, and the team turned around, Fidelia set up a grievous and injured
cry: "My candy! my candy! I 'ain't--got my candy!" And she held up to
view the copper cent still clutched in her moist little fist.

"Poor little lamb, she shall have her candy!" cried Mrs. Rose. Fidelia
had never seen such a handful of candy as Mrs. Rose brought out from the
store. There was a twisted red-and-white stick of peppermint, pink
checkerberry, clear barley--a stick of every kind in the glass jars in
Mr. Rose's store window. And Mrs. Rose would not take Fidelia's one
penny at all; she bade her keep it until she came to the store again.

Aunt Maria was almost up to the store when they left it, and it was
decided that she should remain and make a call upon Mrs. Rose while Mr.
Lennox carried the others home, then he would return for her. Aunt Maria
folded her green umbrella and sank down on the door-step, and Mrs. Rose
brought her a palm-leaf fan and a glass of ginger water. "I 'ain't
walked a mile before for ten year," gasped Aunt Maria; "but I'm so
thankful that child's safe that I can't think of anything else." There
were tears in her eyes as she watched the wagon-load disappearing under
the green branches of the elm-trees. And Fidelia, in her mother's lap,
rode along and sucked a stick of barley candy in silent bliss. Griefs in
childhood soon turn to memories; straightway, as she sucked her barley
candy, Fidelia's long and painful vigil at the store door became a thing
of the past.

ANN MARY HER TWO THANKSGIVINGS

"Grandma."

"What is it, child?"

"You goin' to put that cup-cake into the pan to bake it now, grandma?"

"Yes; I guess so. It's beat 'bout enough."

"You ain't put in a mite of nutmeg, grandma."

The grandmother turned around to Ann Mary. "Don't you be quite so
anxious," said she, with sarcastic emphasis. "I allers put the nutmeg in
cup-cake the very last thing. I ruther guess I shouldn't have put this
cake into the oven without nutmeg!"

The old woman beat fiercely on the cake. She used her hand instead of a
spoon, and she held the yellow mixing-bowl poised on her hip under her
arm. She was stout and rosy-faced. She had crinkly white hair,