We were not very long getting acquainted when we were alone together, and the little girl talked as much as I did. I asked her what her name was, and she said, "Jessie." "That's a real pretty name," said I. "Mine's Kitty." "Why, is it?" said she. "I've got a cousin Kitty. But she isn't near as nice as _you_ are." And with that we both laughed, and felt as if we had lived next door to each other all our lives. I showed her the four kittens, and she said they were perfectly lovely, but liked most the one with a white breast and a sweet dot of a white nose. I told her she might have it for hers as quick as it was old enough to leave its mother. But she has never sent for it since. I guess she must have forgotten. When she had seen the guinea-pigs, and Tom's rabbits, and fed them all they would eat, we clambered into the hay-mow, and had a fine time playing on the hay, till the supper-horn blew. There was no end of goodies for supper, but Jessie's Ma didn't eat scarcely a thing. But she drank two tumblers of Daisy's milk, and said she hadn't tasted anything so delicious in a year. But Jessie and I could eat, and Tom too,--after he had spilt a cup of tea and a pitcher of water, and knocked a piece of pie under the table. He said, when Jessie and her Ma had gone, that the lady's black eyes "discombobolated" him so that he had more than half a mind to dive under the table himself. Soon as we were through supper, Pa brought up the horses (which Tom had driven to the barn, and watered and fed), for it was growing late, and the lady wanted to be home before dark. I put on Jessie's hat for her, and tried to straighten the crown, and pin on the long white feather, that was broken in two in the middle. "It's 'most spoilt," I said. "Isn't it a pity?" "Poh! I don't care," said Jessie. "I've got three more at home, prettier 'n this." "Why-e-e-e!" said I. "Truly honest?" "Why, yes!" said Jessie. "How many've you?" "Just a horrid old Leghorn!" said I. "And it's been pressed over and over, and the trimmings washed, and I can't bear it!" And I was telling her about the chip jockey hat that Sally Carroll's aunt bought her for a birthday present, when the buggy came to the door. "Come, say good-bye to the little girl, my love," said the lady, smiling down at me. Jessie threw her arms around my neck and whispered that I was the best girl she ever knew, and that she should write me a letter when she got to Boston, and hopped in. The lady shook hands with Ma, and thanked her for being so kind, and then turned to Polly and said, softly: "You good Polly, I _must_ do something for you. Wont you let me?"--and put her hand in her pocket. I never saw Polly so mad but once before, and that was when Tom chucked Queen Victoria into the churn, because she wouldn't let him have but a quarter of an apple-pie to take to school. I mean Polly wouldn't. She walked into the buttery, and banged the door behind her as hard as ever she could.