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 after their guest had gone to bed, the Grants
sat up together conversing about Annie; and in the morning they came
down with a proposal so astonishing, that Mrs. Boyd could hardly believe
her ears when she heard it.
"We have been talking in a vague way for years past of adopting a little
girl," said Mr. Grant. "We always wished for a daughter, and felt sure
that to have a sister would be the best thing in the world for Rupert,
who is an affectionate little fellow, and would enjoy such a playmate of
all things. But you can easily guess that there have been difficulties
in the way of these plans, especially as to finding the right child, so
we have done nothing about it. Now it strikes my wife, and it strikes me
also, that this story of your sister's is a clear leading of Providence.
Here is a child who wants a home, and here are we who want a child. So
we have made up our minds to send to America for Annie, and, if her
relatives will consent, to adopt her as our own. Will you give me Mrs.
Randolph's exact address?"
"But it is so sudden. Are you sure you won't repent?" asked Mrs. Boyd.
"I don't think we shall. And it seems less sudden to us than to you,
because, as I have explained, this idea has been in our minds for a a
long time."
You can fancy the excitement of Major and Mrs. Randolph when Mr.
Grant's letter reached Medville. He offered to adopt Annie, and treat
her in every respect as though she were his own daughter, provided her
Grandmother and Aunt would give her up entirely, and promise never again
to claim her as theirs.
"If they will consent to this," wrote Mr. Grant, "I will settle a
hundred pounds a year on them for the rest of their lives. I will also
employ a lawyer to see if any thing can be done towards getting back a
part of the confiscated property. But all this is only on condition that
the child is absolutely made over to me. I am not willing to take her
with any loop-hole left open by which she may, by and by, be claimed
back again just as we have learned to consider her our own. I beg that
Major Randolph will have this point most clearly understood, and will
attend to the drawing up of a legal paper which shall put it beyond the
possibility of dispute."
The day after this letter came, Mrs. Randolph put it in her pocket and
walked out to the mountain hut. She felt very nervous as she tapped at
the door.
"It was a terrible thing to do," she wrote afterwards to her sister.
"There were the two poor ladies as stately as ever, and little Annie so
bright and winning. It was like asking for the only happy thing left in
their lives. I explained first about my letter to you, and how you
happened to be staying with the Grants when you received it, and then I
gave Miss Pickens Mr. Grant's letter. Her face was like iron as she read
it, and she swallowed hard several times, but she never uttered one
word. When she had done, she thought for several minutes; then she said,
in a choked voice, 'If you will leave this with us, Madam, you shall
have an answer to-morrow.' I came away. Dear little Annie walked half
way down the hill with me. I hope, oh, so much, that they will let her
go. The life they lead is too sad for such a child, and in every way it
is better for them all; but oh, dear! I am so sorry for them that I
don't know what to do."
Next day Miss Pickens walked down alone to the Relief Station.
"My mother and I have talked it over," she said briefly, "and we have
decided. Annie must go."
"I am glad," said Mrs. Randolph. "Glad for her, but very sorry for you."
"It is like cutting out my heart," said the poor Aunt. "But what can we
do? I am not able to give the child proper food even, or decent clothes.
If we keep her she must grow up in ignorance. These English strangers
offer every thing; we have nothing to offer. If we could count on the
bare necessaries of life,--no more than those,--I would never, never
give up Annie. As it is, it would be sinning against her to refuse."
"Mr. Grant's assistance will do much to make your own lives more
comfortable," suggested Mrs. Randolph.
"I don't care about that. We could go on suffering and not say a word,
if only we might keep Annie. But she would suffer too, and more and
more as she grows older. No, Annie must go."
"The Grants are thoroughly good people, and will be kindness itself, I
am sure. The only danger is that they may spoil your dear little girl
with over-indulgence."
"She can stand a good deal, having had none for so long a time," replied
Miss Pickens with a sad smile. "But Annie is not that sort of child;
nothing could spoil her. When must she go, Mrs. Randolph?"
"Mr. Grant spoke of the 'Cuba,' on which some friends of his are to
sail. She leaves on the 24th."
"The 24th. That is week after next."
"If it seems to you too soon--"
"No. The sooner it is over the better for us all."
"I half feel as if I had done you a wrong," said Mrs. Randolph, with
tears in her eyes.
"No, you have done us no wrong. It is in our own hands, you see. We
could say no, even now. Oh, if I dared say it! But I dare not,--that is
worst of all,--I dare not." She gave a dry sort of sob and walked away
rapidly. Mrs. Randolph, left behind, broke down and indulged in a good
fit of crying.
Dear little Annie! she was partly puzzled, partly pleased, partly pained
by the news of what was going to befall her. She clung to her Aunty, and
declared that she could not go. Then Mrs. Randolph talked with her and
explained that Aunty would be better off, and Grandmamma have a more
comfortable house to live in--making pictures of the sweet English home,
the kind people, the dear little brother waiting for her on the other
side of the sea, till Annie felt as if it would be pleasant to go. There
was not much time for discussion; every thing was done in a hurry. Mrs.
Randolph sewed all day long on her machine, making little underclothes
and a pretty blue travelling dress. Miss Pickens patched up one of her
faded silks, for she was to accompany Annie to New York and see her
sail, Mr. Grant paying all the expenses of the journey for both of them.
Grandmamma cried all night, but in the daytime her face looked set and
hard. There were papers to sign and boxes to pack. Beppo seemed to smell
in the air that something was about to happen. All day long he hung
around the hut, whining and sniffing. Now and then he would throw back
his head and give a long, sorrowful bay, which echoed from some distant
point in the pine wood. The last day came,--the last kisses. It was like
a rapid whirling dream, the journey, the steam cars, the arrival in New
York, and Annie only seemed to wake up when she stood on the steamer's
deck and felt the vessel throb and move away. On the wharf, among the
throng of people who had come down to say good-by, stood Aunty's tall
figure in her faded silk and ragged shawl, looking so different from any
one else there. She did not wave her handkerchief or make any sign, but
fixed her eyes on Annie as if she could never look away, and there was
something in the expression of her face which made Annie suddenly burst
into tears. She wiped them fast, but before she could see clearly, the
wharf was far distant, and Aunty's face was only a white spot among
other white spots, which were partly faces and partly fluttering
handkerchiefs. A few minutes more and the spots grew dim, the wharf
could no longer be seen, the vessel began to rock and plunge in the
waves, and the great steamer was fairly at sea.
Do you suppose that Annie cried all the voyage? Bless you, no! It was
not in her to be sorrowful long. In a very little while her tears dried,
smiles came back, and the trustful brown eyes were as bright as ever.
Everybody on board noticed the dear little girl and was kind. The
Captain, who had little girls of his own at home, would walk with her on
the deck for an hour at a time, telling her stories which he called
"yarns," and which were very interesting. The old sailors would coax the
little maiden amidships and tell her "yarns" also, about sharks and
whales and albatrosses. One of them was such a nice old fellow. His name
was "Jack," and he won Annie's affections completely, by catching a
flying-fish in a bucket and making her a present of it. Did you ever see
a flying-fish? Annie's did not seem at all happy in the bucket, so she
threw him into the sea again, but none the less was she pleased that
Jack gave him to her. She liked to watch the porpoises turn and wheel in
the water, and the gulls skim and dive; but most of all she delighted in
the Mother Carey's chickens, which on stormy days fluttered in and out,
rocking on the waves, and never seeming afraid, however hard the wind
might blow. Going to sea was to Annie as pleasant as all the other
pleasant things in her life. She would have laughed hard enough had
anybody asked whether unpleasant things had never happened to her, and
would have said "No!" in a minute.
The voyage ended at Liverpool. Annie felt sorry and homesick at leaving
the vessel, as travellers are apt to do. But pretty soon a gentleman
came on board, and a pretty little boy. It was Mr. Grant and Rupert,
come down to meet her, and they were so pleasant and so glad to see
Annie that she forgot all her home-sickness at once.
"What a funny carriage," she exclaimed, when, after they had all landed,
Mr. Grant helped her into a cab.
"It's a Hansom," explained Rupert. "Papa engaged one because I asked
him. It's such fun to ride in 'em, I think. Don't they have any in
America where you live?"
"No,--not any carriages at all where I live," replied Annie, nestling
down among the cushions,--"only mule carts and--wheelbarrows--and--oh,
yes--Major Randolph had an ambulance. There were _beau_-tiful carriages
in New York though, but I didn't see any like this."
"Don't you like it?"
"Oh, yes,--very much," replied Annie, cuddling cosily between her new
Papa and Brother.
"Isn't she pretty?" whispered Rupert to his father. "None of the other
fellows at our school have got such a pretty sister as she is. And she's
a jolly little thing, too," he added confidentially.
Mrs. Grant had grown a little anxious about the first meeting. "If we
_should_ be disappointed!" she thought. But when the carriage drove up
and her husband lifted Annie out, a glance made her easy. "I can love
that child," she said to herself, and her embrace was so warm that Annie
rested in her arms with the feeling that here was real home and a real
Mamma, and that England was just as nice as America.
You can guess how she enjoyed the lawn with its roses, and the beautiful
river. Fresh from the poor little cabin on the hill-top, she
nevertheless fell with the greatest ease into the ways and habits of her
new life. It did not puzzle or disturb her in the least to live in
large rooms, be waited on by servants, or have nice things about her;
she took to all these naturally. For a few days Mr. and Mrs. Grant
watched with some anxiety, fearing to discover a flaw in their treasure,
but no flaw appeared. Not that Annie was faultless, but hers were honest
little faults; there was nothing hidden or concealed in her character,
and in a short time her new friends had learned to trust her and to love
her entirely.
So here was our little girl fairly settled in England, with dainty
dresses to wear, a governess coming every day to give her lessons,
masters in French and music, a carriage to ride in, and half a dozen
people at least ready to pet and make much of her all the time. Do you
think she was happier than she had been before? How could she be? One
cannot be more than happy. She was happy then, she was happy now,--no
more, no less.
Rupert used to talk to her sometimes about that old life, which seemed
to him so strange and dismal.
"How you must have hated it!" he said once. "I can't bear to have you
tell me any more. What's corn-meal? It sounds very nasty! And didn't you
have anybody to play with, not anybody at all, or any fun, ever?"
"Fun!" cried Annie; "I should think so! Why, Rupert, our woods were full
of squirrels. Such dear little things!--you never saw such pretty
squirrels. One of them got so tamed that he used to eat out of my hand.
His name was Torpedo. I named him myself. Then there was Beppo, the
dearest dog! I wish you knew him. We used to run races and have the
greatest fun. And Aunty and I had nice times going down to the camp."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sighed Rupert. He could not see the fun at all.
When Annie had been three years with the Grants, Major and Mrs. Randolph
came to London, and drove down to the villa to see her. It was a great
pleasure to them all. Annie had a thousand questions to ask about
Grandmamma and Aunty, who no longer lived in the hut, but in Medville,
where Mr. Grant had hired a small house for them.
"They are quite comfortable now," said Mrs. Randolph. "Aunty has gained
a little flesh, and Grandmamma is stronger, and able to walk out
sometimes. Old Sambo came down the very night before we left with a box
of birds' eggs, which he wished to send to 'Missy Annie.' They are in
the carriage; you shall have them presently. And here is a long letter
from Aunty."
"Annie, you look just the same," remarked the Major; "only you are
grown, and the sunburn has worn off and left you as fair as a lily. You
used to be brown as a bun when I knew you first. I needn't ask if you
are happy here?"
"Oh! very, very happy," said Annie warmly.
"A great deal happier than you were when you lived with Grandmamma and
Aunty?" inquired Mrs. Randolph.
"Why, no!" cried Annie wonderingly; "not any happier than _that_. I used
to have lovely times then; but I have lovely times here too."
"That child will never lack for happiness," said the Major, as they
drove back to London. "She's the brightest little being I ever saw."
"Yes," replied his wife; "rain or shine, it's all one with Annie. Her
cheer comes from within, and is so warm and radiant that, whatever sky
is overhead, she always rejoices. Let the clouds do what they may, it
makes no difference: Annie will always sit in the sun,--the sunshine of
her own sweet, happy little heart."
[Illustration]
UP, UP, UP, AND DOWN, DOWN, DOWN-Y.
"NOW, Dinah, it's time to try the jelly."
"Wait a minute, Miss May; it can't be stiff yet."
"Oh, yes! Dinah, it is; I think it is. I'll only just breathe on it,
Dinah; I'll not disturb it a bit."
"Let me breathe on it too."
"And me."
Dinah chuckled silently to herself in a way she had. She opened the
kitchen window, and in one second three little girls had climbed on
three chairs, and three curly heads had met over the saucer of currant
juice which stood on the sill.
"I _think_ it's going to jelly," said May.
Lulu touched it delicately with the point of her small forefinger.
"There!" she cried triumphantly. "It _crinkled_; it did, Dinah! The
jelly's come."
"Oh, how good!" added Bertha, applying her finger, not so gently, to the
hot surface, and then putting it into her mouth to cool it! "It's the
bestest jelly we ever made, Dinah."
Dinah chuckled again at this "we." But, after all, why not? Had not the
children watched her scald and squeeze the currants, and stir and skim?
Had not May wielded the big wooden spoon for at least three minutes? Had
not Lulu eaten a mouthful of skimmings on the sly? Were they not testing
the product now? The little ones had surely a right to say "we," and
Dinah accepted the partnership willingly. She lifted the preserving
kettle on to the table; and the junior (not silent!) members of the firm
mounted on their chairs, watched with intense interest as she dipped the
glasses in hot water, and filled each in turn with the clear red liquid.
"It's first-rate jell," she remarked. "Be hard in no time."
"Put a tiny, tiny bit in my doll's tumbler," said Bertha, producing a
minute vessel. "She likes jelly very much, my dolly does."
"Oh, isn't it nice to cook!" exclaimed Lulu, jumping up and down in her
chair! "Such fun! I wish Mamma'd always let us do it."
"What shall we make next?" asked May.
"Jumbles," responded the senior partner briefly.
"I like to make jumbles," cried May. "I may cut out all the
diamond-shaped ones, mayn't I, Di?"
"And I, all the round ones?"
"And I, the hearts?"
Dinah nodded. The children got down from their chairs, and ran to the
closet. They came back each with a tin cookie-pattern in her hand. Dinah
sifted flour and jumbled egg and sugar rapidly together, with that
precise carelessness which experience teaches. In a few minutes the
smooth sheet of dough lay glistening on the board, and the children
began cutting out the cakes; first a diamond, then a heart, then a
round, each in turn. As fast as the shapes were cut, Dinah laid them in
baking-tins, and carried them away to the oven. The work went busily on.
It was great fun. But, alas! in the very midst of it, interruption came.
The door opened, and a lady walked in,--a pretty lady in a beautiful
silk gown of many flounces. When she saw what the children were doing,
she frowned, and did not seem pleased.
"My dears," she said, "I was wondering where you were. It is quite time
that you should be dressed for the afternoon. Come upstairs at once."
"O Mamma!--we're helping Dinah. Mayn't we stay and finish?"
"Helping? Nonsense! Hindering, you mean. Dinah will be glad to get rid
of you. Come at once."
May got down from her chair. But Lulu and Bertha pouted.
"We've hung all our dolls' things out on the line," they said. "It's
washing-day in the baby-house, Mamma. Mayn't we stay just a little while
to clap and fold up?"
"Clap and fold," exclaimed Mrs. Frisbie. "Where do you pick up such
words, I wonder. Of course you can't stay, you must come and be made
decent. Susan shall finish your dolls' wash."
"Oh, no! please Mamma, it's so much nicer to do 'em ourselves," pleaded
Lulu. "Don't let Susan touch them. We love so to wash. Dinah says we're
worth our wages, we do it so well."
"Dinah should not say such things," said Mrs. Frisbie, severely, leading
the unwilling flock upstairs. "Now, Lulu, do look pleasant. I really
cannot have all this fuss made each time that I tell you to come and sit
with me and behave like little ladies. This passion for house-work is
vulgar; I don't like it at all. With plenty of servants in the house,
and your Pa's money, and all, there's no need that you should know any
thing about such common doings. Now, go upstairs and tell Justine to put
on your French cambrics and your sashes, and when you're ready come
straight down. I want you."
Mrs. Frisbie went into the drawing-room as she spoke, and shut the door
behind her with a little bang. She was a good-natured woman in the
main, but at that moment she was really put out. Why should _her_
children have this outlandish taste for cooking and washing? _She_ liked
to be beautifully dressed, and sit on a sofa doing nothing. Why
shouldn't they like to do the same? It was really too bad, she thought.
The children were not a bit like her. They were "clear Frisbie straight
through," and it was really a trial. She felt quite unhappy, and, as I
said, gave the door a bang to relieve her feelings.
While the children are putting on their French cambrics, I will tell you
a Fairy story.
Once upon a time, in a wonderful country where all the inhabitants are
Kings and Queens, a little Prince was born. His father's kingdom was not
big, being only a farm-house, two clover fields, and a potato patch, but
none the less was it a kingdom, because no one else had right to it or
could dispute it. The Prince was born on a Sunday, and the Fairy who has
charge of Sunday children came and stood by his cradle.
"You shall be lucky always," she said, touching the baby's soft cheek
with the point of her finger. "I give you four gifts, Sunday Prince. The
first is a strong and handsome body,"--and the Fairy, as she spoke,
stroked the small limbs with her wand. "The next is a sweet temper. The
third is a brave heart--you'll need it, little Prince,--all people do in
this world. Lastly,"--and the Fairy touched the sleeping eyelids
lightly,--"I give you a pair of clear, keen eyes, which shall tell you
the difference between hawks and hernshaws from the very beginning. This
gift is worth something, as you'll soon find out. Now, good-by, my baby.
Sleep well, and grow fast. Here's a pretty plaything for you,"--taking
from her pocket a big, beautiful bubble, and tossing it in the air. "Run
fast," she said, "blow hard, follow the bubble, catch it if you can;
but, above all things, keep it flying. Its name is Fortune,--a pretty
name. All the little boys like to run after my bubbles. As long as it
keeps up, up, all will go brightly; but if you fail to blow, or blow
unwisely, and it goes down, down--well--you'll be lucky either way, my
Sunday Prince; 'tis I who say so." Thereupon the Fairy kissed the
sleeping child and vanished.