As uncle Nathan had prophesied, Mary was busy as a humming-bird washing up the breakfast dishes, and putting every thing to rights in the kitchen. Aunt Hannah did not seem to observe it, but strained her milk, and went out again. When she came back, uncle Nathan was with her, looking rather grave and perplexed. It was now approaching nine o'clock, and all the "chores," as the good couple called the household work, "were done up." "Go up stairs and get your things," said aunt Hannah to Mary, "it's school-time." Mary obeyed, and aunt Hannah proceeded to change her checked apron for one of black silk, and to invest her head in a straw bonnet that had been tolerably fashionable ten years before, and since that time it had been often bleached, but never changed in form. She took Mary by the hand, when she came down, with her plain mantilla and cottage bonnet on, surveyed her keenly from head to foot, and led her into the street. They passed down the village, the woman not deigning to notice that she was an object of curiosity, the child shrinking with that sensitive dread of observation, that always haunted her when among strangers. About the centre of the village stood a brick academy, with an open space before it, and surrounded by a succession of wooden verandahs. Aunt Hannah entered the lower story of this building, where some forty children were assembled under a female teacher, who came forward to receive her visitors. "This little girl," said aunt Hannah, "we have adopted her. She must come to school." "What branches do you wish her to study?" inquired the teacher. "Reading, writing, cyphering, enough to reckon up a store bill, if she should ever have one, and enough of geography to keep her from losing her way in the world." "Is that all?" said the teacher, "a girl of her age ought to know those things without further teaching." "Like enough she does, ask her," said aunt Hannah. The teacher looked at Mary, who smiled, blushed, and after a moment's hesitation, said, modestly, "I know how to read and write, and a little of the rest." "Very well, I will examine you presently," said the teacher, "yonder is an empty desk, you can take it." Mary advanced up the school-room, blushing and trembling beneath the curious glances that followed her. So sensitively conscious was she that every movement, when strange eyes were upon her, brought its suffering. But, with true heroism, she subdued all appearance of the annoyance she felt, and, in her very meekness and fortitude, there lay a charm that won more worthy affection than beauty could have done.