walked over
several of the children sprawling on the porch, and went out of the
gate and up the road toward the village.

"What's the matter of her anyways?" the woman wonderingly said to
herself as she went back to her work. "Is it that she's so spited about
that letter pop burnt up? But what's a letter to get spited about?
There was enough worse things'n that that she took off her pop without
actin' like this. Och, but he'll whip her if he gets in here before she
comes back. Where's she goin' to, I wonder! Well, I never did! I would
not be HER if her pop finds how she went off and let her work! I wonder
shall I mebbe tell him on her or not, if he don't get in till she's
home a'ready?"

She meditated upon this problem of domestic economy as she mechanically
did her chores, her reflections on Tillie taking an unfriendly color as
she felt the weight of her stepdaughter's abandoned tasks added to the
already heavy burden of her own.

It was to see the doctor that Tillie had set out for the village hotel.
He was the only person in all her little world to whom she felt she
could turn for help in her suffering. Her "Aunty Em," the landlady at
the hotel, was, she knew, very fond of her; but Tillie never thought of
appealing to her in her trouble.

"I never thought when I promised Miss Margaret I'd write to her still
where I'd get the stamps from, and the paper and envelops," Tillie
explained to the doctor as they sat in confidential consultation in the
hotel parlor, the child's white face of distress a challenge to his
faithful remembrance of his promise to the teacher. "And now I got to
find some way to let her know I didn't see her letter to me. Doc, will
you write and tell her for me?" she pleaded.

"My hand-writin' ain't just so plain that way, Tillie. But I'll give
you all the paper and envelops and stamps you want to write on yourself
to her."

"Oh, Doc!" Tillie gazed at him in fervent gratitude. "But mebbe I
hadn't ought to take 'em when I can't pay you."

"That's all right. If it'll make you feel some easier, you kin pay me
when you're growed up and teachin'. Your Miss Margaret she's bound to
make a teacher out of you--or anyways a educated person. And then you
kin pay me when you're got your nice education to make your livin'
with."

"That's what we'll do then!" Tillie joyfully accepted this proposal.
"I'll keep account and pay you back every cent, Doc, when I'm earnin'
my own livin'."

"All right. That'