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CHAPTER VII
THE OLD TUMBLER, AFTER ALL

Hal's chickens prospered remarkably. Five motherly hens clucked to families of black-eyed chicks; and, out of fifty-eight eggs, he only lost seven. So there were fifty-one left. They made some incursions in his garden, to be sure; but presently every thing grew so large that it was out of danger.

There was plenty of work to do on Saturdays. Picking cherries and currants for the neighbors, and the unfailing gardening. It seemed to Hal that weeds had a hundred lives at least, even if you did pull them up by the roots. Sometimes he managed to get a little work out of Kit and Charlie, but they invariably ended by a rough-and-tumble frolic.

Florence succeeded admirably with her embroidering. She managed to earn some pretty dresses for herself, and added enough to Hal's store to enable him to purchase a suit of clothes, though they were not as grand as Joe's.

Hal and Granny took a wonderful sight of comfort sitting on the doorstep through the summer evenings, and talking over old times. Granny would tell how they did when his father, her own dear Joe, was alive, and how pretty his mother had been.

"Flo's a good deal like her," she would always say; "only Flo's wonderful with her fingers. She can do any thing with a needle."

"Flo's a born genius," Hal would reply admiringly.

"But I'm afraid Charlie'll never learn to sew."

"I can sew better myself," was Hal's usual comment.

And it was true. Hal had a bedquilt nearly pieced, which he had done on rainy days and by odd spells. I expect you think he was something of a girl-boy. But then he was very sweet and nice.

Florence stood by the gate one afternoon, looking extremely lovely in her blue and white gingham, and her curls tied back with a bit of blue ribbon. Dot had been in the mud-pie business; and, if it had proved profitable, she would no doubt have made a fortune for the family.

"Go in the house this minute, and get washed," commanded Florence. "What a naughty, dirty child you are!"

Then a carriage passed by very slowly. A young man was driving, and two ladies sat on the back seat. They looked as if they were going to halt.

Florence's heart was in her mouth. She drew herself up in her most stately attitude.

The young man turned; and the lady nearer her beckoned.

Florence stepped out slowly. She thought, with some pride, that, if they wanted a drink, she had a goblet to offer them.

"My little girl," said the lady, in a soft, clear voice, "can you direct us to a blacksmith's?"

"There is one on this road, rather more than a quarter of a mile farther."

"Thank you."

The other lady leaned over, and studied Florence. She had a worn, faded, and fretful look; but some new expression lighted up her sallow face.

"Oh," she sighed, "what a beautiful girl! Now, if I had a daughter like that! I wonder if she lives in that forlorn old rookery?"

"A princess in disguise;" and the young man laughed.

"She was unusually lovely. At her age I had just such hair. But ah, how one fades!"

The straggling auburn hair, very thin on the top, hardly looked as if it had once been "like fine spun gold."

"The trial of my life has been not having a daughter."

Mrs. Duncan had heard this plaint very often from her half-sister, who had married a widower nearly three times her age. He had made a very liberal provision for her during her life, but at her death the fortune reverted to his family again. She had always bewailed the fact of having no children; but boys were her abomination. Mrs. Duncan's house was too noisy, with its four rollicking boys; but now that George was growing to manhood he became rather more endurable.

"I do not believe the child could have belonged there," she commenced again.

"Because she was so pretty?" asked George.

"She doesn't look like a country girl."

"But some country girls are very handsome," said Mrs. Duncan.

"They do not possess this air of refinement generally. And did you observe that she answered in a correct and ladylike manner?"

"Aunt Sophie is captivated. A clear case of love at first sight. Why not adopt her?"

"It would be a charity to take her out of that hovel, if it is her home."

"I shouldn't think of such a thing now, Sophie, with your poor health," said her sister.

There are some natures on which the least contradiction or opposition acts instantly, rousing them to a spirit of defiance. For several years Mrs. Duncan had urged her sister to adopt a child; but she had never found one that answered her requirements. She was not fond of the trouble of small children. Now that Mrs. Duncan had advised contrarywise, Mrs. Osgood was seized with a perverse fit.

"I am sure I need a companion," she returned with martyr-like air.

"Take a young woman then, who can be a companion."

"Here is the blacksmith's," announced George. "I suppose you will have to find some place of refuge;" and he laughed again gayly.

"Where can we go?"

George held a short conversation with the smith.

"My house is just opposite, and the ladies will be welcome," the latter said. "It will take me about half an hour to repair your mishap."

George conducted them thither. The good woman would fain have invited them in; but they preferred sitting on the vine-covered porch. Mrs. Osgood asked for a glass of water. O Florence! if you had been there!

It happened after a while, that George and his mother walked down the garden. Mrs. Green felt bound to entertain this stranger cast upon her care, as she considered it.

Mrs. Osgood made some inquiries presently about the house they had passed, with a small stream of water just below it.

"Why, that's Granny Kenneth's," said Mrs. Green.

"And who is the child, – almost a young lady?"

"Why, that must be Florence. Did she have long yeller curls? If she was my gal she should braid 'em up decently. I wouldn't have 'em flyin' about."

"And who is Florence?"

Mrs. Osgood's curiosity must have been very great to induce her to listen to the faulty grammar and country pronunciations. But she listened to the story from beginning to end, – Joe, and Joe's wife, and all the children, figuring largely in it.

"And if Granny Kenneth'd had any sense, she would a bundled 'em all off to the poor-house. One of the neighbors here did want to take Florence; but law! what a time they made! She's a peart, stuck-up thing!"

If Florence had heard this verdict against all her small industries and neatnesses and ladylike habits, her heart would have been almost broken. But there are a great many narrow-minded people in this world, who can see no good except in their own way.

Mrs. Osgood made no comments. Presently the carriage was repaired, and the accidental guests departed. They had a long ride yet to take. George asked if there was any nearer way of getting to Seabury.

"There's a narrer road just below Granny Kenneth's, – the little shanty by the crick. It's ruther hard trav'lin', but it cuts off nigh on ter three miles."

"I think we had better take it," said George. "Even that will give us a five-miles drive."

So they passed the cottage again. This time Hal was feeding the chickens; Kit and Charlie swinging upon an old dilapidated apple-tree; and Florence sat by the open window, sewing.

"There's your princess!" exclaimed George with a laugh.

Florence colored a little at beholding the party again.

Mrs. Duncan had come to Seabury, a rather mountainous place, remarkable for its pure air, for the sake of her youngest son, Arthur, who had been ill with a fever. Mrs. Osgood took an odd fancy to accompany her. The seven years of her widowhood had not been happy years, though she had a house like a palace. When she first laid off mourning, she tried Newport and Saratoga; but somehow she did not succeed in making a belle of herself, and that rather mortified her.

Then she sank into invalidism; which tried everybody's patience sorely.

Leaning back in the carriage now, she thought to herself, "Yes, if I only had some one of my own! Sister Duncan never did understand me, or appreciate the delicacy of my constitution. Her nerves have been blunted by those great rude boys. And that girl looks so refined and graceful, – she would make a pleasant companion I am sure. But I should want to take her away from her family: I never could consent to any intimacy with them."

She ventured to broach her subject to Mrs. Duncan the next day. Perhaps Mrs. Duncan had grown rather impatient with her sister's whims and fancies; and she discouraged the plan on some very sensible grounds. Mrs. Osgood felt like a martyr.

Yet the opposition roused her to attempt it. One day, a week afterward perhaps, she hired a carriage, and was driven over to Madison. George had gone back to the city, so there was no question of having him for escort.

Granny Kenneth was much surprised at the appearance of so fine a lady. She seized Dot, and scrubbed her face, her usual employment upon the entrance of any one.

Mrs. Osgood held up her ruffled skirts as if afraid of contamination.

"Is your granddaughter at home?" was asked in the most languid of voices.

"Flo, you mean? No: she hasn't come from school yet. Do walk in and wait – that is – I mean – if you please," said Granny a good deal flustered, while the little gray curls kept bobbing up and down. "Here's a clean cheer;" and she gave one a whiff with her apron.

Poor Flossy. She had tried so hard to correct Granny's old-fashioned words and pronunciations.

"Thank you. Miss Florence embroiders, I believe."

"Yes, she works baby-petticoats, and does 'em splendid."

And then Granny wondered if she, the fine lady, had any work for Florence.

"How glad Flo'll be, and vacation coming so soon," she thought in the depth of her tender old soul.

"And she's a genius at crochetin'! The laces and shawls and hoods she's knit are a real wonder. They didn't do any thing of the kind in my young days."

"You must find it pretty hard to get along," condescended Mrs. Osgood.

"Yes; but the Lord allers provides some way. Joe's gone in a store, – Mr. Terry's. He's next to Florence," went on Granny in sublime disregard of her pronoun.

Mrs. Osgood took an inventory of the little room, and waited rather impatiently. Then she asked for a glass of water.

O Granny! how could you have been so forgetful! To take that old, thick, greenish glass tumbler when Flossy's choice goblet stood on the shelf above! And then to fill it in the pail, and let the water dribble!

Granny wondered whether it would be polite to entertain her or not. But just then there was a crash and a splash; and Dot and the water-pail were in the middle of the floor.

"Here's a chance!" exclaimed Kit, pausing in the doorway. "Give us a hook and line, Granny: Dot's mouth is just at an angle of ten degrees, good for a bite."

"A wail, sure enough!" said Charlie. "Wring her out, and hang her up to dry."

"Oh, dear!" and Granny, much disconcerted, sat Dot wrong side up on a chair, and the result was a fresh tumble.

It was Hal who picked her up tenderly, – poor wet baby, with a big red lump on her forehead, and dismal cries issuing from the mouth that seemed to run all round her head.

"Stay out there till I wipe up," said Granny to the others. "Then I'll get Dot a dry dress. I never did see such an onlucky child – and company too. What will Flo say!"

For Florence came tripping up the path, knitting her delicate brows in consternation.

"Never you mind. There's a lady in the parlor who's been waitin'. Oh, my! what did I do with that floor-cloth?"

"A lady?"

"Yes: run right along."

Luckily the door was shut between. Florence gave her curls a twist and a smoothing with her fingers, took off her soiled white apron, pulled her dress out here and there, stepped over the pools of water, and entered.

Mrs. Osgood admired her self-possession, and pitied the poor child profoundly. The flush and partial embarrassment were very becoming to her.

That lady did not mean to rush headlong into her proposal. She broke the ground delicately by inquiring about the embroidering; and Florence brought some to show her.

"Who taught you?" she asked in surprise.

"No one;" and Florence colored a little. "I did not do the first as neatly, but it is quite easy after one is fairly started."

"I really do not see how you find time, with going to school;" and this persevering industry did touch Mrs. Osgood's heart.

"I cannot do very much," answered Florence with a sigh. "But it will soon be vacation."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be fifteen the last of this month."

"What a family your grandmother has on her hands!"

"Yes. If my father had lived, it would have been very different."

A touching expression overspread Florence's face, and made her lovelier than ever in Mrs. Osgood's eyes.

"She certainly is very pretty," that lady thought; "and how attractive such a daughter would be in my house! I should live my young life over again in her."

For Mrs. Osgood had found that the days for charming young men were over, and prosy middle-aged people were little to her taste. No woman ever clung to youth with a greater longing.

"What do you study at school?" she asked.

"Only the English branches. I have been thinking of – of becoming a teacher," said Florence hesitatingly.

"You would have a poor opportunity in this little town."

"I might go away;" and Florence sighed again.

"You have never studied music, I suppose."

"No: I have had no opportunity," returned Florence honestly enough.

"Do you sing?"

"Yes. And I love music so very, very much! I do mean to learn by and by, if it is possible."

"I wish you would sing something for me, – a little school-song, or any thing you are familiar with."

Florence glanced up in amazement; and for a few moments was awkwardly silent.

"I should like to hear your voice. It is very pleasant in talking, and ought to be musical in singing."

Florence was a good deal flattered; and then she had the consciousness that she was one of the best singers in school. So she ran over the songs in her own mind, and selected "Natalie, the Maid of the Mill," which she was very familiar with.

She sang it beautifully. Florence was one of the children who are always good in an emergency. She was seldom "flustered," as Granny expressed it, and always seemed to know how to make the best of herself. And, as she saw the pleasure in Mrs. Osgood's face, her own heart beat with satisfaction.

"That is really charming. A little cultivation would make your voice very fine indeed. What a pity that you should be buried in this little town!"

"Do you think – that I could – do any thing with it?" asked Florence in a tremor of delight.

"I suppose your grandmother would not stand in the way of your advancement?" questioned Mrs. Osgood.

"Oh, no! And then if I could do something" —

Florence felt that she ought to add, "for the others," but somehow she did not. She wondered if Mrs. Osgood was a music-teacher, or a professional singer. But she did not like to ask.

"There is my carriage," said Mrs. Osgood, as a man drove slowly round. "I am spending a few weeks at some distance from here, and wished to have you do a little flannel embroidery for me. When will your vacation commence?"

"In about ten days, – the first of July."

"I wish to see you when we can have a longer interview. I will come over again then."

Mrs. Osgood rose, and shook out her elegant grenadine dress, much trimmed and ruffled. On her wrists were beautiful bracelets, and her watch-chain glittered with every movement. Then she really smiled very sweetly upon the young girl; and Florence was charmed.

Some dim recollection passed over her mind.

"Oh!" she said, "were you not in a carriage that stopped here some days ago. Another lady and a young gentleman" —

"Yes," answered Mrs. Osgood, pleased at being remembered. "And, my dear, I took a great fancy to you that day. You are so different from the majority of country girls, that it is a pity you should have no better chance."

The longing and eloquent eyes of Florence said more than words.

"Yes. I will see you again; and I may, perhaps, think of something to your advantage."

There was a mode of egress through this "best-room," though Granny had brought her guest in by the kitchen way. Florence opened the door now.

"What a lovely, graceful child!" thought Mrs. Osgood; and she scrutinized her from head to feet.

Florence watched the carriage out of sight in a half-dream. How long she would have stood in a brown study is uncertain; but Granny came in to get some dry clothes for Dot.

"What did she want of you?" exclaimed Charlie, all curiosity. "And what were you singing for? Oh, my! wasn't she splendid?"

"You sang like a bird," said Hal in wide-eyed wonder as well. "Did she ask you?"

"Of course. You don't suppose I would offer to sing for a stranger, – a lady too?"

"Did she like it?"

"Yes. She thought I might – that is, if I had any opportunity – oh, I wish we were a little richer!" and Florence burst into a flood of hysterical tears.

"I wish we were;" and Hal gave her hand a soft squeeze. "If you could learn to play on the melodeon at church, and give music-lessons" —

The vision called up a heaven of delight to poor Flossy.

"But what did she want?" asked Granny in a great puzzle, putting Dot's foot through the sleeve of her dress, and tying the neck-string in garter fashion.

"I do believe she is a singer herself. Maybe she belongs to a company who give concerts; but then she was dressed so elegantly."

"They make lots of money," said Kit with a sagacious nod of the head. "It's what I'm going to be, only I shall have a fiddle."

"And a scalp-lock."

Charlie pulled this ornamentation to its fullest height, which was considerable, as Kit's hair needed cutting.

"Oh! suppose she was," said Hal. "And suppose she wanted to take Flossy, and teach her music, – why, it's like your plan, you know, only it isn't an old gentleman; and I don't believe she has any little girls, – I mean a little girl who died. Did she ask for a drink, Granny?"

"Yes; and then Dot pulled over the water-pail. Oh, my! if I haven't put this dress on upside down, and the string's in a hard knot. Whatever shall I do? And, Flossy, I forgot all about the gobler. I took the first thing that came to hand."

"Not that old tumbler with a nick in the edge? And it is goblet. I do wish you'd learn to call things by their right names!" exclaimed Florence in vexation.

"It's the very same, isn't it?" began Charlie, "only, as Hal said, it isn't an old gentleman. Oh, suppose it should come true! And if Kit should have a fiddle like black Jake."

"And if you should run away," laughed Hal. "I don't believe you can find a better time than this present moment. Kit, you had better go after the cows."

Charlie started too, upon Hal's suggestion. Florence gave a little sniff, and betook herself to the next room.

Oh, dear! How poor and mean and tumbled about their house always was! No, not always, but if any one ever came. Dot chose just that moment to be unfortunate; and then that Granny should have used that forlorn old tumbler. She doubted very much if the lady would ever come again.

So Flossy had a good cry from wounded vanity, and then felt better. Hal took Dot out with him to feed the chickens, and Granny prepared the table.

Still Florence's lady was the theme of comment and wonder for several days, although the child insisted that she only came to get some embroidering done. All further speculations seemed too wild for sober brains.

"But it is so odd that she asked you to sing," said Hal. "And I do believe something will come of it."

Florence gave a little despairing sniff.

CHAPTER VIII
FLORENCE IN STATE

Mrs. Osgood leaned back in the carriage, – it was the very best that Seabury afforded, – and, looking out on the pleasant sunshine and waving trees, considered the subject before her. If she took Florence, she would have a governess in the house, and go on as rapidly as possible with the finishing process. Music should be the first thing: the child did have a lovely voice, and such fair, slender hands! In a year she would be quite presentable. How vexed all the Osgood nieces would be! They were continually hinting at visits, and would be delighted at having Aunt Osgood take them up. But somehow she had a grudge against her husband's relatives, because the property reverted to them in the end.

And then she fancied herself riding out with this beautiful daughter by her side, or stopping at hotels where every one would wonder "who that lovely girl could be!" And Florence would certainly be most grateful for the change. It was a deed of charity to rescue the poor child from the life before her, with no better prospect than that of a school-teacher. She certainly had some ideas and ambitions beyond her sphere.

School closed presently, and the children were wild with delight. They had a great time on examination day, and Florence acquitted herself finely. Mr. Fielder was very proud of her.

"If you can go to school another year, and improve as much," he said, "I can almost promise you a very good situation."

Flossy's dream in respect to her elegant lady was fading, and she came back to humbler prospects quite thankfully.

What Granny was to do with the children through vacation she hardly knew.

"Oh, you needn't worry!" said Charlie consolingly. "Kit and me are going out in the woods; and we'll build a stunning log-hut, or make a cave" —

"O Charlie, if you would be a little more careful! Kit and I."

"I can't be always bothering! Mr. Fielder almost wears me out, so you might let me have a little rest in vacation.

 
'For spelling is vexation,
And writing is bad:
Geography it puzzles me,
And grammar makes me mad.'"
 

With that Charlie perched herself on the gate-post, and began to whistle.

"If Charlie only had been a boy!" groaned Florence.

On Monday of the first week they washed. Florence assisted; but she hurried to get herself dressed in the afternoon, for fear some one might come. And then she wondered a little what she ought to do. Embroidering and fancy work appeared to be dull just now; and she would have two months in which she might earn considerable money, if it only came. For, with all her small vanities and particular ways, she was not indolent.

On Tuesday they began their ironing at an early hour. There were Florence's pretty dresses and aprons, nothing very costly, but a dainty ruffle here and there added to the general grace. These same ruffles were a great trouble to some of the old ladies in Madison, "who didn't see how Granny Kenneth could let Florence waste her time in such nonsense while she slaved herself to death!"

Florence had twisted her hair in a knot, and her dress was rather the worse for wear; but she worked away cheerfully. Her pile of clothes was decreasing very fast.

Suddenly a sound of carriage-wheels startled her; and, glancing up, she uttered a frightened exclamation.

"O Granny! it's the lady again, and I look like a fright! What shall I do? Won't you go and ask her in? and you look dreadful too! Put on your other sacque. There! I'll run and tidy up a bit."

She made a snatch at the brush and comb, and hurried up in the boys' room.

"Oh, dear! How red I am in the face! It's too bad;" and she felt tempted to cry, but she knew that would only make matters worse. So she let down her shining hair, brushed it out, and wound it round her fingers in curls. Then Granny came plodding up stairs.

"I told her you were busy, but that you'd be ready in a few minutes," she explained.

"Why didn't you think to bring up one of my clean dresses?"

"To be sure! which one?"

"The pink calico, I guess. Oh! and the braided white apron."

Down went Granny. Ah! many a step had she taken for these children, weary ones, and yet cheerfully done. Would they ever think of it?

Florence was not long in making herself neat and presentable, but the flushed face still troubled her. She viewed herself critically in the cracked glass, and then ran down, pausing to fan a few moments with the cape of an old sun-bonnet, the nearest thing at hand.

"Do I look decent, Granny?" she said apprehensively.

"To be sure you do, and nice too."

Granny's eyes expressed her admiration.

Florence ventured in timidly, and the lady inclined her head.

"I am sorry that I have kept you waiting so long, but it was unavoidable;" and the child made a little halt to wonder if her long word sounded well.

"I suppose I took you somewhat by surprise. Are you very busy to-day?"

"Not very," answered Florence at random, her heart beating violently.

"And quite well? but I hardly need ask the question."

"I am always well, thank you," with a touch of grace.

"How fortunate! Now, I have such wretched health, and my nerves are weak beyond description."

Florence gave a glance of quick sympathy, not unmixed with admiration. There was something very romantic about the languid lady.

"If you are quite at liberty," Mrs. Osgood began, "I should like to have you drive out with me. I have a great deal to say to you, and we shall not be interrupted."

Florence could hardly credit her hearing. To be asked to ride with so grand a lady!

"Oh!" and then she paused and colored.

"Would you like to go?"

"Very, very much indeed;" and the young face was full of pleasure.

"Well, get yourself ready; and, if you will send your grandmother to me, I will explain."

Florence felt as if she were in a dream. Then she wondered what she ought to wear. She had a pretty light gray dress and sacque for "Sunday best," and a new white dress; but her visitor's dress was gray, and that decided her. So she took the articles out of the old-fashioned wardrobe, and summoned Granny.

Granny was dazed. "Where is she going to take you?" she asked in helpless astonishment.

"I don't know. She will tell you, I suppose."

"But, Flo, I have heerd of girls being kidnapped or something;" and Granny's face turned pale with fear.

"Nonsense!" returned Flossy with a toss of the curls. She could not even trouble herself about Granny's mispronunciation just then.

"You don't know" —

"I guess she won't eat me up. Any how, I am going."

Florence uttered this with a touch of imperiousness. Granny felt that she would have little influence over her, so she entered the room where the guest was seated.

"Mrs. Kenneth," the lady began in her most impressive and gracious manner, "when I was here a few days ago, I took a great fancy to your granddaughter. My name is Osgood; and I am staying at Seabury with my sister, Mrs. Duncan. And although you may hesitate to trust Florence with a stranger, she will be quite safe, I assure you; and if you are willing, therefore, I should like to take her out for a few hours. I have some plans that may be greatly to the child's advantage, I think."

"You'll be sure to bring her back," asked Granny in a spasm of anxious terror, which showed in her eyes.

"Why, certainly! My poor woman, I cannot blame you for this carefulness;" for the worn face with its eagerness touched Mrs. Osgood. "My brother-in-law, Mr. Duncan, is a well-known merchant in New York; and I think you will confess when I return Florence this afternoon, that the ride has been no injury to her."

Granny could make no further objections, and yet she did not feel quite at ease. But Florence entered looking so bright and expectant, that she had not the heart to disappoint her, so she kept her fears to herself.

"You must not feel troubled," Mrs. Osgood deigned to say, as she rose rather haughtily. "You will find my promises perfectly reliable."

"You needn't finish my pieces," Florence whispered softly to Granny at the door. "I shall be back time enough; and if the fire is out I'll wait till to-morrow They are my ruffled aprons, and" —

Mrs. Osgood beckoned her with a smile and an inclination of the head. Florence felt as if she were being bewitched.

Granny watched her as she stepped into the carriage.

"If she'd been born a lady she couldn't act more like one. It's a great pity" —

A few tears finished Granny's sentence. All the others were more content with their poverty than Florence.

So she went back to her ironing with a heart into which had crept some strange misgiving. Hal was out; Joe never came home to dinner; so Granny gave the children a piece of bread all round, and kept going steadily on until the last ruffled apron had been taken out of the pile.

Very long indeed the hours seemed. Oh, if any harm should befall her beautiful, darling Flossy! Poor Joe, in his grave, had loved her so well!

Flossy meanwhile was having a most delightful time.

"I am going to take you to Salem," Mrs. Osgood said, after Florence had begun to feel quite at home with her. "We will have our dinner at the hotel."

Salem was the county town, – quite a pretentious place, with some broad, straight streets, several banks, and, indeed, a thriving business locality. Florence had been there twice with Mrs. Kinsey.

Mrs. Osgood began to question the child about herself. Florence told over her past life, making the best, it must be confessed, of the poverty and discomforts. And yet she seemed to take rather hardly the fact of such a lot having fallen upon her. Mrs. Osgood was secretly pleased with her dissatisfaction.

"I wonder how you would like to live with me?" she questioned. "I think I should enjoy having some one that I could make a companion of – as one never can of a servant."

Flossy's heart beat with a sudden delight, and for the first moment she could hardly speak.

"I live a short distance from New York, on the banks of the Hudson: at least, my house is there, but I travel a great deal. It would be very pleasant to have a – a friend of one's own," – Mrs. Osgood was not quite sure that it was best or wisest to say child.

"Oh, it would be very delightful! If I could" – and the child's eyes were aglow with delight.

"There are so many of you at home, that your grandmother would not miss one. Besides, I could do a great many nice things for you."

"It is like a dream!" and Flossy thought of her wild day-dream. "And I could sew as well as embroider; and oh! I would try to make myself useful," she said eagerly.

Mrs. Osgood smiled. She had taken a strange fancy to this child, and enjoyed her look of adoration.