sian
-Amy’s mother, now and then, by way of
charity, to do little jobs about the house,
usually called chores. Of late, she had
not been allowed to come to the house-
She had been suspected of ‘thieving.
Amy did not know this, but she knew
she was not a good girl, and she felt
ashamed of her sluttish appearance, as
they walked side by side. She knew that
her mother would not like to have her
seen with such a companion, though she
taught her not to be proud. She felt
very uncomfortable and discontented all
the afternoon, though Luce was full of
smiles and flattery, and Amy was glad to
have any one to speak to. Her usual
companions were all in the school-room.

They cracked the nuts together, and
then went off into the woods, where they
were soon on an equality as to rags, for
Amy’s gown and stockings got various
unlucky rents, in her attempts to imitate
her new playmate’s gambols. For the
first time in her life she climbed a tree.
She was a long time perched in the
branches, before she could gather courage
to get down again. She came to the
ground all in a heap, like a bag of sand,
while Luce swung herself about like a
monkey.

Amy did not know where she was, and
Luce brought her out of the wood oppo-
site Mrs. Wayland’s door. “See, mother,”
she bawled, as a chocolate colored cap,
with dirty red ribbons, appeared at a
window, “ Here’s the squire’s daughter.”

“Come in, miss, and rest ye, without
ye're tu praoud to come under @ poor
person’s ruff,” said Mrs. Wayland.

“Lor, she an’t proud a mite,” said Luce,
drawing her along. “An’t she played
along of me this live-long arternoon ?”

Amy picked her way over the black,

*«

   

‘THE YOUTH’S CABINET. 281

greasy mud, to the door-stone, on which
her foot slipped, and she fell into the
arms of the woman, who kissed her two
or three times, and carried her into the
house. As she looked about the room,
she was astonished to behold certain arti-
cles which had been missed at home,
lying in plain sight. A pair of scissors.
which had been sought for all over the

‘house, some weeks before, claimed hei

acquaintance. A piece of carpet said,
“How d’ye do, old friend ?” almost as
plain as speech. A handkerchief, which
lay in the window, had her own name on
‘+t. Without that, she would not have
guessed that it had ever been white. Her
duty was to take notice of these things,
but she tried not to seem to be looking at
them. Having made herself Luce’s com-
panion, she shared her shame, or rather
felt that shame for her, which she felt not
for herself.

Luce soon returned, with something
rolled up in brown paper, and a bag of
crackers. |

“Massy! couldn’t ye get no more
butter than that for four cents! You
need n't a got the best kind. Two crack-
ers short! You've eat ’em, coming along,
you jade!”

“He never gin me another one,” cried
Luce, angrily; then whispered to Amy,
“T mean, if lies are true.”

“I must go home,” said Amy, half
ready to cry.

“T shan’t let you stir till after supper,”
said Luce. “ We're going to have cracker
toast. I guess you don't get anything
better than that, to home.”

“Can't you eat with poor folks for
once 2” said the woman, in a sneering
yoice, “Our vittles is clean, if our house
an’t.” i

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