Marie, with curled-up, contemptuous lips, held the intended deceiver out at arm’s length and slowly and derisively put out her spiteful, red tongue at her--then suddenly caught her by the heels and hurled her out of the window, remarking: “You nasty, little, ugly beast! I hope the ’hoppers and the ants’ll get all over you, and fleas in your stockin-legs, too! And who ever brought you here shall be pinched, all black! So there! Now, where’s Dinah?” A pretended search followed, till suddenly Marie remembered she had left Dinah out in the garden. “Oh, Cawie! Cawie!” she cried, “I forgotted her, my own, peshous Dinah, and she’s been reading all night, without her dinner! Oh, Dinah! Dinah!” and away she started to the porch, on her way to rescue her beloved. And then the old struggle, between mother and child was renewed. In her foolish endeavor to deceive Marie a little longer, Mrs. Tyler told falsehood after falsehood. Now it was a curious thing about the vixen, that she was utterly truthful, for her mother was a prolific, though inconsequential liar--her lies so utterly lacking cohesive power that they never were known to sustain one another, and Marie often berated her mother for her wrong-doing. Now nearly distracted, the child suddenly turned to me, asking: “Cawie, Cawie, has my Dinah fallen down the well?” I shook my head, and answered, “No, Marie, dear,” while in the same moment Mrs. Tyler quickly exclaimed: “Yes, my sweet, she is in the well, but the man will get her out, and to-morrow you shall have her in all new things!” Marie glared at her a few seconds, then stamping her foot, cried, “How dare you, you so wicked mamma! Stop, now! Stop, I say; you make lies every day, you do. Go do your hair up right, and sit in the parlor and make lies, and let me find my dear Dinah. Cawie, will help me!” and as she got through the door and into the dew-wet garden, Mrs. Tyler cried out: “She’s all right, she is in--in--the oven getting dry. You can have her soon, only my angel, come and get dressed now!” But, with a cry of delight, her angel tore out of her hands and darted into the kitchen, and before Mrs. Tyler could signal, much less speak to Norah, Marie cried: “Norah, what’s in the oven?” and that honest bond-maiden answered, “Nothin’, Miss, its not hot enough for biscuit, see!” and she threw open the door, and into its black maw disappeared the child’s bright hopes. She stood quite still, and looked first at one and then at another. I was crying quietly, but I watched her and saw her face growing paler and paler. At last she took a fold of my mother’s dress in her hand and said: “Auntie, is my Dinah dead?” Before she could lift her bent head to answer, Norah, with a mighty roar, burst forth: “She is, Miss, she’s dead and killed, and all tored up, and there’s nothing left of her!”