A pure, sweet, and faithful affection grew up between the two children, such as we have sometimes seen between two little girls or two little boys; only because neither Gloria nor David had any other playmate to divide their attention, their innocent affection was all the stronger, deeper, and more devoted in its exclusiveness. Very often, too, the fisher-boy brought an invitation from his grandmother to the little lady to spend a day on the sandhill which the old dame called her home. It was always accepted, and always Gloria had “a happy, happy day.” She learned of the old cottager to net, to knit, to sew, to piece patchwork quilts out of scraps of bright calico and white linen, and to plait doormats out of strips of brilliant cloth or flannel—arts not likely to be of much use to the West Indian heiress—but she liked to learn them, notwithstanding. “Wouldn’t I make a right good little cottage girl, after all, Granny Lindsay?” she once asked her old friend, in her childish love of approbation. “’Ee would, my darling,” said the old dame, tenderly. “’Ee would make a helpful, loving little lass by the cottage fire, or a gracious benign princess in a palace. The world’s breath of sunshine is for ’ee, my flower, from the cottage to the palace.” “I saw some palaces in Havana, but I would rather have a cottage just like this! Oh, I think a cottage is so nice and cosy, and so—SPLENDID!” exclaimed the little girl, with childlike exaggeration and misapplication of words. So the once lonely child found much joy in her humble friends, giving and receiving good, while spring bloomed into summer, and summer ripened into autumn, and autumn faded into winter. Then came cold, and frost, and change, a bitter change for little Gloria. Her playmate’s work was now the clearing up of the fishing landing, mending boats and oars, and putting them away for winter—work that could not go on parallel with his studies, which were now pursued in the evenings at his own home. Yet Gloria came down late in the afternoon on every clear day to hear him say his lessons. He told her that this helped him on “ever so much.” And it pleased her. One day after sunset, when she had heard her pupil’s lesson in a very elementary book of astronomy, and had praised his quick apprehension and patient application, and had greatly encouraged him, as she always did, she took leave and ran home, singing and dancing as she went. When she reached the house, she found ’Phia at the door, looking out for her. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, come in, child,” said the woman, in a frightened tone. “What—what is the matter? What has happened?” cried Gloria, catching terror from the other. “I dunno. Somefin’ awful! Mistress has been goin’ on at that rate! She done put de debbil in marster now, sure! Mind, I tell you, honey, dere’ll be murder done here some ob dese days! Mark my words!”