But the shrewd child understood at a glance that she had not been sufficiently explicit, so she added: “Hera is Lady’s poultry woman, and takes care of the chickens, and ducks, and the geese, and turkeys, and Ducky Darling is her little girl, and my little playmate. Dear Ducky Darling! You would love her so much if you knew her. She is so sweet. Now give me some more sacks and buttons, and I will go to work,” said the small old lady, with an air of confidence and responsibility. Annie gave her the materials, and then sat down to her machine and began to ply it. The noise, as well as the occupation, forbade all conversation, and the woman and child worked on in silence for three or four hours, until Annie had finished the job of making the two dozen sacks upon which she was engaged. Then she stopped her machine, covered it, gathered up her pile of sacks, and drew her chair near the stool of the child. Here she began to draw out the basting threads, and fasten loose ends, and put on all those little finishing touches that must be done by hand. And while she did this she began to question her little guest, with so much tact as well as tenderness that in the course of an hour or a little more time she drew from the confiding child as much of the story of her short life as that child understood and remembered. When it grew too dark to work any longer, Annie folded up the sacks, which were by that time completely finished, and said: “Now you stay here while I go and take these things to the store at the corner. You see, I work for that same store where I bought your clothes.” “Oh, do you? I’m real glad it is so near. And I will help you all I can. Say! I have been some little tiny bit of use, haven’t I?” “Indeed, you have, my dear,” Annie answered, as she left the room. The child, pleased at this warm acknowledgment of her services, looked around the room to see what more she could do to help her friend. She saw threads and fluff scattered about the carpet, and she stooped down and gathered them up and put them in the stove. Then she looked around again for “new worlds” of usefulness “to conquer,” and she saw Annie’s workbasket on the table in some disorder. She took it and sat down with it on her lap and began to wind up the spools of cotton, roll up the rounds of tape, and so on. While she was still intent on this little labor of love her friend re-entered the room, and seeing how she was engaged, said: “Why, you little Busy Bee, what are you doing now?” “Settling up your workbasket, ma’am, for it wanted it badly. And now I have finished it. But my name is not Busy Bee; it is Owlet,” solemnly replied the child, as she replaced the basket on the table. “I know—you told me so; Owlet and also Catherine. Now which would you rather I should call you?” “Owlet.” “Well, then, Miss Owlet——”