“No, no, no! kitchen ain’t no place for white children, no how you can fix it, so go ’long in wid you.” And the rough old woman came bustling up to the fire-place, drove the little girls away, and began to set her spider and spider lid to heat. “No; this _is_ no place for us,” said Hagar, who disdained a controversy with a menial; and the children left the passage. Rosalia’s teeth were chattering, and she felt as though the cold had reached her heart. “I wish that we were both dead, Hagar,” said she, in a whimpering tone. “I don’t,” said Hagar, looking half in pity, half in scorn, at the wailing child. “Nor must you. You must live. You are to marry the President of the United States, you know.” “Oh, yes!” exclaimed the vain child, suddenly brightening up, “so I am! Cumbo, when she ain’t cross, says I’m pretty enough to marry him or his betters! And then, Hagar! oh, Hagar! then I am going to have a good fire all the time, in every room in the house; and I will wear _whole_ shoes and stockings _every_ day, and _always_ have biscuits for supper. And—never mind, Hagar, you shall live with me, too; and when I think of that, oh, Hagar! When I think of that, I have such a—such a—what do you call it, that keeps people up, and keeps ’em alive?” “Hope.” “Yes! ‘never give up.’ You know Gusty Wilde says ‘never give up,’ and I am agoing to ‘never give up.’ I am going down into the cellar, now, to pick up chips. Tarquins has been down there sawing wood, and I know there must be chips there; and we can pick up enough to make us a fire, and we can make a nice fire and tell stories.” And with the elasticity of childhood she led the way down to the cellar. It was a large, dark, musty old place, with an area partitioned off, in which milk, butter, fresh meat, &c., were kept in summer; in winter it was usually two feet deep in water; now, however, it was nearly dry. It was originally intended for a kitchen, and was built in the old-fashioned English style, with a large grate in the fire-place, with ovens each side, having heavy iron doors. These deep ovens, the bounds of which were out of sight in the darkness, seemed to Hagar like the entrances to subterranean caverns, the abode of ghosts. To Rose they were merely brick closets, that smelt very musty and unpleasant. The brick pavement of the cellar was decayed away, and green with mould. It was, however, a favorite resort with the children, for there they were free from persecution. They entered, and Rosalia began to fill her apron with chips, when Hagar spied an old worn-out flag basket, and drew it towards them. They both went to work, and soon filled the little basket, and Rosalia, taking it up in her chubby arms, began to toil up stairs with it. Hagar would have taken it from—but “No, Hagar,” said she, “I am afraid to go into the kitchen again. I’ll carry this, and _you_ go and steal a coal of fire, and bring the broom, so that we can sweep up the slop.”