“And what will you do when you get through?” “Oh, then I mean to put my squares away until I can get more scraps, and take hold and help Hera to make her rag carpet,” said the child, laying her brilliant wilderness down on her lap and smoothing it out. “Rag carpet?” echoed Miss Fronde. “Yes. I’ll tell you all about it. You gather up all the old rags you can find, and wash them clean, and dry them dry, and then you cut ’em into strips and sew the strips together and wind ’em into big balls, and when you have got enough you put it in a loom and weave it into a carpet.” “Oh!” “Yes. It isn’t such a pretty work as the sensible quilt, but is so saving and so useful. I can’t weave, but I certainly can cut strips and sew ’em together, and wind ’em up into balls.” “Ducky is nearly as old as you are. Do you try to teach her to sew?” “No. It’s no use. You can’t do it. She can’t learn. Ducky Darling is as sweet as sugar, but—I’m afraid—she is not possessed of common sense.” Roma was surprised into a laugh at the hesitation, the regret and the solemnity expressed in Owlet’s words and looks. “Here she comes now, poor little thing, playing on the musical box I gave her. That’s all she can do, and that’s only turning a little crank, you know,” added Owlet. Ducky Darling waddled up to them, radiant with life and joy, her eyes shining like great stars from the night of her dark face. She was playing on her toy music box with the greatest delight, though the instrument, being out of repair ever since it had been in her possession, could furnish no particular tune, but mixed up rollicking “Yankee Doodle” with dirgelike “Araby’s Daughter” in the most eccentric manner. No less on that account was Ducky Darling delighted with her toy. Roma sat down on the steps and took the little black child on her lap and began to talk to her, to draw her out. But there was nothing in her to bring out but tenderness, love, devotion. She had no thoughts on any, even the simplest, subject. The breakfast bell rang. “Have you had your breakfast, Dorcas?” inquired Miss Fronde. “’Es,” said the child, still turning her music box. “What did you have for breakfast?” “B’ead an’ m’ik an’ ’lasses.” “A very good breakfast. Now you sit here and play your organ until we get ours,” said Miss Fronde, lifting the child from her lap and seating her on the steps. Owlet gathered up her work and rose, and the two went into the house and sat down to the table in the pleasant room, where four windows opened, two upon the old garden and two upon the woods, whence came in the fresh morning air, laden with the perfume of flowers and the songs of birds. As soon as the meal was over Roma said to Owlet: “We will go to our lessons at once, and get them through before Dr. Shaw comes. I expect him about noon.”