han those in
which the negroes dwell. In fact, it used to be a negro hut, some say a
pig-pen; but that is too bad, I cannot believe it. The roof lets in
water, the floor is broken away, the windows are stuffed with rags and
an old hat. Every thing is perfectly clean inside, swept and scrubbed
continually by the poor ladies, and they are real ladies, Mary. It was
pitiful to see old Mrs. Pickens sitting in her wooden chair in a dress
which her former cook would have disdained, and yet with all the dignity
and sad politeness of a duchess in difficulties. They make no secret of
their extreme poverty; they cannot, in fact, for it stares you in the
face; but they ask for nothing, and you would scarcely dare to offer
aid. I was so shocked that I could not restrain my tears. Miss Pickens
brought me a tin cupful of water, and I think my sympathy touched her,
for she has thawed a little since, and has permitted Annie to accept a
gingham frock which I made for her, and some stockings and shoes. Such
dainty little feet as hers are, and such a lovely child! I have scarcely
ever seen one so beautiful, and it is not common beauty, but of the
rarest sort, with elegance and refinement in every feature and movement.
It is a thousand pities that she should be left here to grow up in
poverty without education, or any of the things she was born to, for, as
I told you in my last, the family was once wealthy, and Annie herself
would be a great heiress had not the war ruined them all."

When Mrs. Boyd received this letter, she was making a visit to some
friends who lived in a villa on the banks of the Thames. Mr. and Mrs.
Grant were the names of these friends. They were all sitting on the lawn
when the post came in. The sunset cast a pink glow on the curves of the
beautiful river; the roses were in perfect bloom; overhead and
underfoot the grass and trees were of that rich and tender green which
is peculiar to England. The letter interested Mrs. Boyd so much that she
read it aloud to her friends, who were rich and kind-hearted people,
with one little boy of their own.

Mrs. Grant almost cried over the letter. It was the saddest thing that
she had ever heard of, and all that evening she and her husband could
talk of nothing else. Little Annie, sound asleep in her Carolina cabin,
did not dream that, three thousand miles away, two people, whom she had
never heard of, were spending half the night in the discussion of her
fate and fortunes! Long a