“No, I reckon not. Not many have such a pedigree,” admitted the carpenter, taking up his plane. Then he squinted curiously across it at Carolyn May. “I guess your papa was some different from Joe Stagg, wasn’t he?” “Oh, yes; he didn’t look much like Uncle Joe. You see, they aren’t really related,” explained Carolyn May innocently. Mr. Parlow grunted and stripped another shaving from the edge of the board he was planing. Carolyn May’s eager eyes followed that curling ribbon, and her lips parted. There were just _bushels_ of shavings lying all about the shop—and Uncle Joe said Mr. Parlow would not give away a single one! The carpenter paused before pushing the plane a second time the length of the board. “Don’t you want a drink of water, little girl?” he asked. “Oh, yes, sir—I would. And I know Prince would like a drink,” she told him quickly. “Go right around to the well in the back yard,” said Mr. Parlow. “You’ll find a glass there—and Mandy keeps a pan on the well-curb for the dogs and cats.” “Thank you; I’ll go,” the little girl said, and started around by the green lane to the yard behind the cottage and the carpenter shop. She hoped she would see Miss Amanda Parlow; but she saw nobody. The well was like the one in the Stagg back yard—it had a sweep and a smooth pole and chain that lowered the bucket into the depth of the shaft. But it seemed as though somebody must have known the little girl was coming, for a dripping bucket of water had just been lifted upon the shelf, and the pan on the well-curb was filled. Prince lapped up the water from this eagerly. All the time Carolyn May was getting her drink she felt she was being watched. She gazed frankly all about, but saw nobody. The green blinds were tightly closed over the cottage windows; yet the child wondered if somebody inside was not looking out at her. Was it the nice-looking lady she had seen the day before—Miss Amanda, who would not look at Uncle Joe? She went back to the door of the carpenter shop and found Mr. Parlow still busily at work. “Seems to me,” he said, in his dry voice, after a little while, “you aren’t much like other little girls.” “Aren’t I?” responded Carolyn May wonderingly. “No. Most little girls that come here want shavings to play with,” said the carpenter, quizzically eyeing her over his work. “Oh!” cried Carolyn May, almost jumping. “And do you give ’em to ’em?” “’Most always,” admitted Mr. Parlow. “Oh! Can _I_ have some?” she gasped. “All you want,” said Mr. Parlow, and perhaps that funny noise he made in his throat was as near to a laugh as he ever got. When Tim’s old hack crawled along the road from town, with Aunty Rose sitting inside, enthroned amidst a multitude of bundles, Carolyn May was bedecked with a veritable wig of long, crisp curls, each carefully thrust under the brim of her hat. And when she shook the curls, Prince barked at her.