"I thought you stayed with a rich lady, and had everything nice that you wanted." "I do not expect to have even a shelter much longer. The lady who takes care of me is sick, and cannot live very long; and, when she dies, I don't know where I shall go or what I may be obliged to do." "If you will only keep me I will help you work. At the Asylum I saw wood, and pick peas, and pull out grass and weeds from the strawberry vines, and sometimes I sweep the yards. Just try me a little while, Salome, and see how smart I can be." "Would you be willing to leave poor little Jessie at the Asylum? If she felt so lonesome when you were there, how will she get along without you?" "Oh, we could steal her out some night, and keep her with us. Salome, I tell you I don't mean to go back there. I will die first. I will drown myself, or run away to sea. I would rather starve to death here in the swamp. Everybody else can get a home, and why can't we?" "Because your father was a drunkard, and left his children to the charity of the poor-house; and, God knows, I heartily wish we were all screwed down in the same coffin with him. You and I, Jessie, and Mark, and Joel are all beggars--miserable beggars! Hush, Stanley, you will sob yourself into a fever! Stop crying, I say, if you do not want to drive me crazy! I thought I had trouble enough, without being tormented by the sight of your poor, wretched face; and now, what to do with you I am sure I don't know. There--do be quiet. Take your arms away; I don't want you to kiss me any more." In the long silence that succeeded, the child, spent with grief and fatigue, fell into a sound sleep, and Salome sat with his head in her lap and her clasped hands resting on her knee. The afternoon slowly wore away, and the dimpled pond caught lengthening shadows on its surface as the sun dipped into the forest. The measured tinkle of a distant bell told that the cows were wending quietly homeward; and, while the miller's wife drove her geese into the yard, the pigeons nestled in their leafy coverts high among the elm arches, and the solemn serenity of coming summer night stole with velvet tread over the scene, silencing all things save the silvery barcarolle of the falling water, and the sweet, lonely vesper hymn of a whippoorwill, half hidden in the solitary cypress. Although tears came very rarely to her eyes, the orphan had wept bitterly, and, surprised at finding herself so completely unnerved on this occasion, she made a powerful effort to regain her composure and usual stolidity of expression. Shaking the little sleeper, she said,-- "Wake up, Stanley. Get your hat and come with me, at least for to-night."