pon me a look so
scorching that it might have burned a passage straight through me into
the bricks.

"I knew you were a horrid bad boy. You looked it!" she cried.

At this I saw in my imagination the closed gate of the enchanted garden,
and my budding sportsman's proclivities withered in the white blaze of
her wrath.

"I don't reckon I'll train him to catch 'em by the back of thar necks,"
I hastened to add.

At this she turned toward me again, her whole vivid little face with its
red mouth and arched black eyebrows inspired by a solemn purpose.

"If you'll promise never, never to kill a cat, I'll let you come into
the garden--for a minute," she said.

I hesitated for an instant, dazzled by the prospect and yet bargaining
for better terms. "Will you let me walk under the arbours and down all
the box-bordered paths?"

She nodded. "Just once," she responded gravely.

"An' may I play under the trees on the terrace where you built yo'
houses of moss and stones?"

"For a little while. But I can't play with you because--because you
don't look clean."

My heart sank like lead to my waist line, and I looked down ashamed at
my dirty hands.

"I--I'd rather play with you," I faltered.

"Fur de Lawd's sake, honey, come in en let dat ar gutter limb alont,"
exclaimed the old negress, wagging her turbaned head.

"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said her charge, after a deep
moment; "I'll let you play with me for a little while if you'll take the
cat."

"But I ain't got any use for it," I stammered.

"Take it home for a pet. Grandmama won't let any more come on the place.
She's very cruel is grandmama, isn't she, mammy?"

"Go way, chile, dar ain' nobody dat 'ould want all dem ar critters,"
rejoined the old negress.

"_I_ do," said the little girl, and sighed softly.

"I'll take it home with me," I began desperately at last, "if you'll let
me play with you the whole evening."

"And take you into the house?"

"An' take me into the house," I repeated doggedly.

Her glance brushed me from head to foot, while I writhed under it, "I
wonder why you don't wash your face," she observed in her cool,
impersonal manner.

I fell back a step and stared defiantly at the ground.

"I ain't got any water," I answered, driven to bay.

"I think if you'd wash it ever so hard and brush your hair flat on your
head, you'd look very nice--for a boy," she remarked. "I like your eyes
because they're blue, and I have a dog with