promise you.)

If "Miss Fannie" put her head into the kitchen, she'd tell her it was
no place for _her_,--to go right up stairs, and sit in the parlor like
a lady, and not be worrying her little head about the cooking and such
matters; that she'd send up a dinner pretty soon that would make Massa
Hale open his eyes; and she didn't care if he brought the President
home with him to dine!

Chloe was scrupulously honest;--she took care of everything just as
carefully as "Miss Fannie"--never wasting, never giving slily away tea
or sugar, or bread, or meat, or coal, to her acquaintances, as I'm
sorry to say many unprincipled servants do.

So "Massa Hale" began to like her, as well as "Miss Fannie," and many a
nice calico dress, or handkerchief turban, found its way mysteriously
into Chloe's trunk.

After a while, Chloe had _another_ Miss Fannie to look after. Was there
ever a baby like that? Certainly not--except the _original_ Miss
Fannie. Chloe forgot her pots, and pans, and pickles, and preserves,
and hoe-cakes; and said that "somebody else must do the cooking, or
else that baby never would thrive; for what did Miss Fannie know about
babies, she would like to know?"

So Chloe washed her hands, and walked up into the nursery, and when she
said that little Fan must have some peppermint, she had it; and when
she objected to its wearing caps, they were taken off; and when she
said it was time for her to go to sleep, she _went_ to sleep, as a
matter of course.

Chloe sent its mother out to take the air, and told her it was no use
for her to trouble her head about the baby, because it was a thing she
knew nothing about;--in fact "Miss Fannie" never was allowed to peep
into its cradle without Chloe's express permission.

But the time was coming when Sorrow's dark shadow should cross the
happy threshold. Death laid his icy finger on the little baby's lip,
(with scarce a moment's warning,) just as it had twined itself round
all their hearts with its winning little ways.

Who comforted poor Fannie then? Who arrayed the baby's dainty little
limbs for burial? Who placed the tiny flowers between its waxen little
fingers? Who folded away from the weeping mother's sight the useless
caps and robes? Who spoke words of cheer, while her own heart was
breaking?--who, but _Chloe_?

Ah, dear children, _never say that servants are without feeling_; never
say it spoils them to treat them like human beings. They all have their
trials-