to the piazza.

"Get your hats, and bring Beth's with you," he said to Mrs. Davenport
and Marian who were listening to the music.

"What do you think of that man and the rig?" asked Mr. Davenport of
Beth, indicating a middle-aged negro who stood holding a bay mare
hitched to a surrey.

Beth noted that the man looked good-natured. There were funny little
curves on his face suggestive of laughter even when in repose. Jolly
wrinkles lurked around his eyes. Beth saw two rows of pearly teeth
though his mouth was partly hidden by a mustache and beard. His nose
was large and flat. It looked like a dirty piece of putty thrown at
haphazard on a black background. Beth, however, did not mind his
homeliness.

"He's nice, and the horse is beautiful," she said.

"Then let's go down and talk to the man."

As Mr. Davenport and Beth walked to the side of the darky, he lifted
his stovepipe hat that had been brushed until the silk was wearing
away. He revealed thereby a shock of iron-gray wool. He made a
sweeping bow.

"Massa, am dis de little missy dat yo' wuz tellin' 'bout? I'se
powerful glad to meet yo', missy."

He was so very polite that even irrepressible Beth was a little awed.
She hid halfway behind her father.

"This is January, Beth."

"What a very queer name," she whispered.

"It is queer, but you are in a strange land. For awhile you'll think
you are in fairy-land. Everything will be so different. Do you want
to stay with January while I go in to bring your mother?"

She nodded that she did. Mr. Davenport reentered the hotel. Beth
seated herself upon the curbstone, and looked at the bay horse behind
which she was soon to have the bliss of driving. She thought it about
as nice a horse as she had ever seen. Her curiosity overcame her
momentary shyness. "Is it your horse, January?"

He smiled. "No, 'deed, missy, but I raised her from a colt, and she
loves me like I wuz her massa. Why, she runs to me from de pasture
when I jes' calls, while she's dat ornary wid odders, dey jes' can't
cotch her. It takes old January to cotch dis horse, don't it, Dolly?"

The horse whinnied.

"Is Dolly her name?"

"Dat's what I calls her, honey. It ain't her real name. Her real
name----"

"Oh, has she a nickname, too? She's like me then. My name isn't
really Beth."

"'Deed?" he asked with polite interest.

"It's Elizabeth, but I'm called that only when I have tantrums."

"What am dem, missy?"

"W