“Fust place, the deacon is _rayther_ near—has enough on the table to eat, but jest enough, an’ that’s all. One o’ them tables where there ain’t no scrapin’s for ary cat or dog when the folks is through. But, to hear Deacon Allbright ask a blessin’ on it, you’d think ev’ry meal was a banquet. “Wal, Chet was a boy, an’ he was tearin’ hungry, I reckon, when he got to the table, and the deacon’s long-winded prayers was too much for Chet’s appetite. With the dinner dished up and his plate full, that poor hungry little snipe had to wait while the deacon filled his mouth with big words. “An’ one day at dinner, when they had some visitors,” chuckled Mr. Parlow, “it got too much for Chet Gormley. Ha’f-way through the deacon’s blessin’ the boy began to eat. I spect he couldn’t help it. The deacon didn’t have his eyes shut very tight, an’ he seen him, and frowned. “But that didn’t make no manner o’ odds to Chet. He’d got a taste, and his appetite was whetted. He begun mowin’ away like a good feller. With righteous indignation, the deacon cleared his throat, and then ended his long prayer with this: “An’ for what we air about to receive, _and for what Chet Gormley has already received_, let us be truly grateful.” Carolyn May laughed politely, but she could sympathise with poor Chet. He did look hungry, he was so long and lathlike. So they chatted throughout the meal, and the little girl began to feel better in her mind. “I think you are lovely, Miss Amanda,” she said as she helped wipe the dishes after the carpenter had gone back to the shop. “I shall always love you. I guess that anybody who ever _did_ love you would keep right on doing so till they died! They just couldn’t help it!” “Well, now, that is a compliment!” laughed Miss Amanda. “You think if I once made friends I couldn’t lose them?” “I’m sure they’d always love you—_just the same_,” repeated Carolyn May earnestly. She had Uncle Joe in mind now. “How could they help doing it? Even if—if they didn’t darest show it.” “What’s that?” asked Miss Amanda, looking at her curiously. “Yes, ma’am. Maybe they wouldn’t darest show it,” said the little girl confidently. “But they’d just have to love you. You must be a universal fav’rite, Miss Amanda.” “Indeed?” said the woman, laughing again, yet with something besides amusement expressed in her countenance. “And how about you, Chicken Little? Aren’t you universally beloved, too?” “Oh, I don’t expect so, Miss Amanda,” said the child. “I wish I was.” “Why aren’t you?” “I—I—Well, I guess it’s just because I’m not,” Carolyn May said desperately. “You see, after all, Miss Amanda, I’m only a charity child.” “A _what_?” gasped Miss Amanda, almost dropping the salad dish she was herself wiping. “What are you, child?” “I’m charity,” Carolyn May repeated, having hard work to choke back the tears. “You know—my papa and mamma—didn’t—didn’t leave any money for me.” “Oh, my child!!” exclaimed Miss Amanda. “Who told you that?”