Aunt Tucker was known and respected in the community as a "good provider" and a good Christian, but she didn't understand Marty. Besides that, she had Elly and Susie and John, her own children, to look after. Marty was shy and timid and dreamy, and so it happened that she became little maid-of-all-work, a kind of country Cinderella. But she tried to keep a brave face, and dreamed of the time when Tim would be big enough to earn his own living and could take her away. As the summer passed, Marty had grown more and more lonesome; she felt as if she hadn't a friend in the world. One day she was in the barn-yard, and Dot--Uncle Eb's old white cow--looked around at her so sympathetically with her big, kind eyes that a knot tied itself in Marty's throat, and she ran and threw her arms around Dot's neck. "You'll be my friend--won't you, Dot?" she sobbed. Dot was evidently about to say something sympathetic, when Marty felt a hand on her head. It was Uncle Eb's. "What's the matter, Marty?" he asked, and his raspy voice sounded as if it had just been oiled. She had always been afraid of Uncle Eb. He was big and silent, and his bushy eyebrows scowled. But she said: "I'm lonesome. I want to see Tim." The old farmer stopped and patted her head, and then sat down to milk. One day he said, "Want to earn some money, Marty?" Marty's head swam. With money she could see Tim. Her face flushed faintly. "Yes, sir," she said. "Well, you pick up the pumpkins in the corn-lot and load 'em on the wagon every day, and I'll give you one load." There were a great many loads of pumpkins, and it was very hard lifting for Marty; but she worked bravely, because she remembered Tim. She could have finished the loading much sooner if Aunt Tucker hadn't called her so often--Aunt Tucker didn't like the pumpkin idea; she said she didn't believe in children having money. But now, after weeks of work, the last load stood in the field. "Thet's yours," Uncle Eb had said, quietly. And that is why Marty's heart was almost bursting with joy. The Tuckers were up at sunrise the next morning. For Uncle Eb was going to town with Marty's pumpkins. "You're foolish to whim thet child," said Aunt Tucker, complainingly; "you're treating her better'n you do yer own kith an' kin." Uncle Eb didn't reply; but an hour later he and Marty were perched on the high wagon seat, and the sun was looking jolly at the end of the long road to town. Marty wore Elly's hat and a plain but clean dress, and her eyes sparkled with joy. She wanted to tell Uncle Eb how happy and thankful she was, but she didn't dare to. So she tapped her precious pumpkins with her toes as she was bounced about on the high spring seat.