to set about such things. I'm such a clumsy fellow
that all I dared attempt was to deal out as much meal and bacon as the
Aunt could carry."

Blanche Randolph found it easy to "take a fancy" to the sweet little
creature who lifted to her such beaming eyes as she made her offering of
the yellow jessamines. "Oh, dear!" she said to herself, "how I wish she
belonged to me." She kissed and fondled her, and while Miss Pickens
transacted her business, Annie sat on Mrs. Randolph's lap and talked to
her, quite as though they were old acquaintances.

"What do you do all day, dear? Have you any one to play with?"

"Oh, yes, I have Beppo. That's Mr. Ashley's dog, you know. He runs over
to see me almost every week, and we have such nice times."

"And don't you study any lessons?" asked Mrs. Randolph.

"No, not now. I used to, but Aunty is so busy now that she says she
hasn't time to teach me. Beside, all my books were burned up."

"Come, Annie, it is time to go," said Miss Pickens, moving away, with a
curt bow to Mrs. Randolph.

Annie lingered to kiss her new friend.

"I shall pick you some fresh flowers next time we come," she said.

"I'll tell you what, Harry," said Mrs. Randolph, "that is the most
_pathetically_ sweet little darling I ever saw."

"Pathetic? Why she's as happy as the day is long."

"Ah, you don't understand! That's the very reason. 'I feel to cry' over
her, as old Mauma Sally would say."

Medville was a quiet, lonely place. All the people, black and white
alike, were very poor. Nobody called to see Mrs. Randolph; there were no
parties to go to; and after a while she learned to look forward to
little Annie's visit as the pleasantest thing in the whole week. Annie
looked forward to it also. Her new friend was both kind and gay. Always
some little treat was prepared for her coming,--a book, a parcel of
cakes, or a picture-paper with gay colored illustrations. Mrs. Randolph
chose these gifts carefully, because she was afraid of offending Miss
Pickens, but Miss Pickens was not offended; she loved Annie too dearly
for that, and became almost gracious as she thanked Mrs. Randolph for
her kindness. After some time Mrs. Randolph ventured to walk out to the
cottage. What she saw there horrified her, but I can best tell what that
was by quoting a letter which she wrote about that time to her sister,
Mrs. Boyd, who was spending the summer in England:--

"Fancy, dear Mary, a miserable log hut not one bit better t