Bobby sang on Sunday. The little church was full to the doors. Bobby was already famous in the village, and people had a lively curiosity as to what this disquieting collector of bugs and snakes might offer in the way of a sacred song. The "nighty" was, perforce, absent, much to the sorrow of Ann; but the witchery of the glorious voice entered again into the woman's soul, and, indeed, sent the entire congregation home in an awed silence that was the height of admiring homage. At breakfast time Monday morning, Bobby came downstairs with his brown paper parcel under his arm. Ann glanced at his woeful face, then went out into the kitchen and slammed the oven door sharply. "Well, marm, I've had a bully time---sure's a gun," said the boy wistfully, following her. Miss Wetherby opened the oven door and shut it with a second bang; then she straightened herself and crossed the room to the boy's side. "Robert," she began with assumed sternness, trying to hide her depth of feeling, "you ain't a-goin' home ter-day--now mind what I say! Take them things upstairs. Quick--breakfast's all ready!" A great light transfigured Bobby's face. He tossed his bundle into a corner and fell upon Miss Wetherby with a bearlike hug. "Gee-whiz! marm--but yer are a brick! An' I 'll run yer errands an' split yer wood, an' I won't take no dogs an' cats in the parlor, an' I'll do ev'rythin'--ev'rythin' ye want me to! Oh, golly--golly!--I'm goin' ter stay--I'm goin' ter stay!" And Bobby danced out of the house into the yard there to turn somersault after somersault in hilarious glee. A queer choking feeling came into Ann Wetherby's throat. She seemed still to feel the loving clasp of those small young arms. "Well, he--he's part angel, anyhow," she muttered, drawing a long breath and watching with tear-dimmed eyes Bobby's antics on the grass outside. And Bobby stayed--not only Monday, but through four other long days--days which he filled to the brim with fun and frolic and joyous shouts as before--and yet with a change. The shouts were less shrill and the yells less prolonged when Bobby was near the house. No toads nor cats graced the parlor floor, and no bugs nor snakes tortured Miss Wetherby's nerves when Bobby's bed was made each day. The kitchen woodbox threatened to overflow--so high were its contents piled--and Miss Wetherby was put to her wits' end to satisfy Bobby's urgent clamorings for errands to run. And when the four long days were over and Saturday came, a note--and not Bobby--was sent to the city. The note was addressed to "Miss Ethel Wetherby," and this is what Ethel's amazed eyes read: _My Dear Niece_:--You can tell that singer man of Robert's that he is not going back any more. He is going to live with me and go to school next winter. I am going to adopt him for my very own. His father and mother are dead--he said so. I must close now, for Robert is hungry, and wants his dinner. Love to all, ANN WETHERBY. The Lady in Black