“It is too long.” “Yes, it is long as it is spelt and written; but not as it is pronounced, for it is pronounced Davero—Gloria Davero—and the colored folks have got it down to little Glo’.” “Oh, I like that! Little Glo’!” said the lad, with animation. “Do you? I am so glad! What does your name mean, David Lindsay?” “I’m blest if I know what it means, if it means anything at all.” “But it must mean something, David Lindsay. All names do.” “Well, then, I will ask my grandmother.” “Yes, do. Do you like me, David Lindsay?” “Oh! yes, indeed I do.” “So do I you, ever so much. What is that you are doing with that long wooden needle and big ball of cord, David Lindsay?” “I am mending nets.” “Oh, how curious it is. Will you show me how to do it, David Lindsay? Is it hard to do?” “No, it is easy. I will be glad to show you,” said the boy, who then instructed her in the simple stitch by which the nets were made. “What fun!” exclaimed the child, as her slender little fingers plied the wooden needle in and out among the meshes. “Who taught you to do this, David Lindsay?” “I——” The boy hesitated and looked puzzled, and then said: “I don’t know. I netted nets ever since I could remember, and before, too, I reckon, but not so large nets as these. I netted minnow nets first, I remember that. I s’pose father must ha’ taught me.” “Have you got a father and mother, David Lindsay?” “Yes, in Heaven,” replied the lad, lifting his broken hat and bending his head. “So have I—in Heaven. Have you got any brothers and sisters, David Lindsay?” “No, not one.” “No more have I. Have you got any playmates?” “No; never had any.” “No more have I. But now I have you, and you have me, and we will be playmates, won’t we?” “Yes, indeed!” “How old are you, David Lindsay?” “I am almost twelve; I shall be twelve next Fourth of July.” “Oh, what a splendid birthday! I shall be eight the first of June!” “June is a nice month, too. The roses are all out,” said the boy. The little girl fell into thought for a few minutes, and then she said: “What made you lift your hat and bend your head when you said ‘Heaven,’ David Lindsay?” “Grandmother taught me.” “‘Grandmother!’ Yes, you said grandmother before.” “She is father’s mother. Father was drowned in a squall while out fishing when I was seven years old. That was in the spring; mother died of pleurisy the next winter; a bitter, bitter winter, when the snow lay two or three feet deep on the ground and drifted around our little house, and there was no one to bring us wood from the main but grandmother and me, and we had to go for it in the boat and couldn’t bring but a little at a time; and we had no doctor and that was the way poor mother died.” Gloria’s bright eyes were full of tears. She slipped her hand in that of the boy and said: “But maybe she would have died all the same. My mother had everything in the world, and she died. But you know neither of them really died; they went to heaven.”