ctice sketches and burned them.

Glancing out of the window, she saw Microby Dandeline approaching the
cabin, her dejected old Indian pony, ears a-flop, placing one foot
before the other with the extreme deliberation that characterized his
every movement. Patty smiled as her eyes took in the details of the
grotesque figure; the old harness bridle with patched reins and one
blinder dangling, the faded gingham sunbonnet hanging at the back of
the girl's neck, held in place by the strings knotted tightly beneath
her chin, the misshapen calico dress caught over the saddle-horn in a
manner that exposed the girl's bare legs to the knees, and the thick
bare feet pressed uncomfortably into the chafing rope stirrups--truly,
a grotesque, and yet, Patty frowned--a pitiable figure, too. The pony
halted before the door, and Patty greeted the girl who scrambled
clumsily to the ground.

"Well, well, if it isn't Microby Dandeline! You haven't been to see me
lately. The last time you were here I was not at home."

"Hit wasn't me."

"What!" exclaimed Patty, remembering the barefoot track at the spring.

"I wasn't yere las' time."

Patty curbed a desire to laugh. The girl was deliberately lying--but
why? Was it because she feared displeasure at the invasion of the
cabin. Patty thought not, for such was the established custom of the
country. The girl did not look at her, but stood boring into the dirt
with her bare toe.

"Well, you're here now, anyway," smiled Patty. "Come on in and help me
get supper, and then we'll eat. You get the water, while I build the
fire."

When the girl returned from the spring, Patty tried again: "While I
was in town somebody came here and cooked a meal, and when they got
through they washed all the dishes and put them away so nicely I
thought sure it was you, and I was glad, because I like to have you
come and see me."

"Hit wasn't me," repeated the girl, stubbornly.

"I wonder who it could have been?"

"Mebbe hit was Mr. Christie. He was to our house las' night. He brung
Davy some pencils an' a lot o' papers fer to draw pitchers. Pa 'lowed
how Davy'd git to foolin' away his time on 'em, an' Mr. Christie says
how ef he learnt to drawer good, folks buys 'em, an' then Davy'll git
rich. Pa says, whut's folks gonna pay money fer pitchers they kin git
'em fer nothin'? But ef folks gits pitchers they does git rich, don't
they?"

"Why, yes----"

"You got pitchers, an' yo' rich."

Patty laughed. "I'