"I want to stay with you." "Come, Frederick," said Miss Prime. "Go now, like a good boy," repeated Mrs. Davis. "Here 's a copper fur you; take it in yore little hand,--that 's a man. Now kiss me good-bye. Kiss John an' Harriet." The child, seeing that he must go, had given up resistance, and, doing as he was bidden, took Miss Prime's hand, sobbingly. Some of us do not learn so soon to bow to the inevitable. "Good-bye, ladies. I must git back to my work," said Miss Hester. "Good-bye, good-bye, Miss Hester," came the echo. The moment the door closed behind her and her charge, there was a volley of remarks: "Oh, I do hope she 'll be good to him." "I wonder how she 'll manage him." "Pore child, he did n't want to go at all." "Who 'd have thought it of Miss Hester?" "I wish I could have kept him myself," said Mrs. Davis, tearfully. "It hurt my heart to see him cling to me so." "Never you mind, Melissy Davis; you 've done yore whole dooty as well as you could." Mrs. Warren rose and put her shawl over her head preparatory to going. "As fur my part," she said, "I 'd 'a' ruther seen that child in the childern's home, devilment or no devilment, than where he is. He won't dare to breathe from this hour on." The women were silent for a moment, and then Mrs. Davis said, "Well, Miss Hester 's well-meanin'." CHAPTER IV At the top of the mean street on which Margaret's house was situated, and looking down upon its meaner neighbours in much the same way that its mistress looked upon the denizens of the street, stood Miss Prime's cottage. It was not on the mean street,--it would have disdained to be,--but sat exactly facing it in prim watchfulness over the unsavoury thoroughfare which ran at right angles. The cottage was one and a half stories in height, and the upper half-story had two windows in front that looked out like a pair of accusing eyes. It was painted a dull lead colour. In summer the front yard was filled with flowers, hollyhocks, bachelor's-buttons, sweet-william, and a dozen other varieties of blooms. But they were planted with such exactness and straightness that the poor flowers looked cramped and artificial and stiff as a party of angular ladies dressed in bombazine. Here was no riot nor abandon in growth. Everything had its place, and stayed therein or was plucked up. "I jest can't abide to see flowers growin' every which way," Miss Prime used to remark, "fur all the world like a neighbourhood with different people's children traipsin' through everybody else's house. Everything in order, is my motto."