autiful little Annie, but Annie did not
grieve,--not she!

Never was a happier little maiden,--as blithe and merry in her coarse
cotton frock and bare feet as though the cotton were choicest satin. She
was as pretty too. No frock could spoil that charming little face framed
in thick chestnut curls, or hide the graceful movements which would have
made her remarkable anywhere. Her eyes, which were brown like her curls,
danced continually. Her mouth was always smiling. The dimples came and
went with every word she spoke. And, however shabby might be her dress,
she was a little lady always. No one could mistake it, who listened to
her sweet voice and prettily chosen words. The pitiful sadness of her
Grandmother, the rigid melancholy of her Aunt, passed over her as a
cloud drifts over a blue sky on a summer's day, leaving the blue
undimmed. She loved them, and was sorry when they were sorry; but God
had given her such a happy nature, that happy she must be in spite of
all. Just to be alive was pleasant enough, but there were many other
pleasant things beside. The woods were full of flowers, and Annie loved
flowers dearly. Then there were the beautiful pine forests themselves,
with their cool shades and fragrant smell. There was sunshine too, and
now and then a story, when Aunty felt brighter than usual. The negroes
in the neighborhood were all fond of little "Missy Annie." They would
catch squirrels for her, or climb for birds' eggs; and old Sambo
scarcely ever passed the hut without bringing some little gift of
flowers or nuts. There was Beppo, also, a large and handsome hound
belonging to a distant plantation, who came now and then to make Annie
visits. It was a case of pure affection on his part, for she was not
allowed to give him any thing to eat, not even a piece of corn bread,
for food was too precious with the stricken family to be shared with
dogs. But Beppo came all the same, and seemed to like to race and romp
with Annie just as well as though the entertainment had wound up with
something more substantial. Oh! there were many pleasant things to do,
Annie thought.

When Aunty went out to call her that day, she was sitting under a tree
with a lap full of yellow jessamines, which she was tying into a bunch.
As she worked she sang.

"Who are those for, Annie?" asked Miss Pickens.

"I was going to give them to Mrs. Randolph, Aunty. She came yesterday to
the camp, Juba says. I thought she'd like them."

Miss Picke