ark and all the animals?"

"Des es plain es I see you. Marse Noah? Why, I'se done wash en i'on Marse
Noah's shuts twel I 'uz right stiff in de j'ints. He ain' never let nobody
flute his frills fur 'im 'cep'n' me. Lawd, Lawd, Marse Peyton's shuts warn'
nuttin ter Marse Noah's!"

Betty's eyes grew big. "I reckon you're mighty old, Aunt Ailsey--'most as
old as God, ain't you?"

Aunt Ailsey pondered the question. "I ain' sayin' dat, honey," she modestly
replied.

"Then you're certainly as old as the devil--you must be," hopefully
suggested the little girl.

The old woman wavered. "Well, de devil, he ain' never let on his age," she
said at last; "but w'en I fust lay eyes on 'im, he warn' no mo'n a brat."

Standing upon the threshold for an instant, the child reverently regarded
her. Then, turning her back upon the fireplace and the bent old figure, she
ran out into the twilight.

I

AT THE FULL OF THE MOON

By the light of the big moon hanging like a lantern in the topmost pine
upon a distant mountain, the child sped swiftly along the turnpike.

It was a still, clear evening, and on the summits of the eastern hills a
fringe of ragged firs stood out illuminated against the sky. In the warm
June weather the whole land was fragrant from the flower of the wild grape.

When she had gone but a little way, the noise of wheels reached her
suddenly, and she shrank into the shadow beside the wall. A cloud of dust
chased toward her as the wheels came steadily on. They were evidently
ancient, for they turned with a protesting creak which was heard long
before the high, old-fashioned coach they carried swung into view--long
indeed before the driver's whip cracked in the air.

As the coach neared the child, she stepped boldly out into the road--it was
only Major Lightfoot, the owner of the next plantation, returning, belated,
from the town.

"W'at you doin' dar, chile?" demanded a stern voice from the box, and, at
the words, the Major's head was thrust through the open window, and his
long white hair waved in the breeze.

"Is that you, Betty?" he asked, in surprise. "Why, I thought it was the
duty of that nephew of mine to see you home."

"I wouldn't let him," replied the child. "I don't like boys, sir."

"You don't, eh?" chuckled the Major. "Well, there's time enough for that, I
suppose. You can make up to them ten years hence,--and you'll be glad
enough to do it then, I warrant you,--but are you all alone, yo