"I hope not. The last I heard of her she was married to a negro fiddler."

"O!"

"Do you know why I have told you this sad story, my little daughter?"

"'Cause, 'cause—Harriet beat her head against the door, and hurt a baby, and—and—married black folks!"

Dotty was very pale, and there was a tear in her voice; still her mother could not be sure that her words had made much impression. She was afraid her long story had been "love's labor lost."

But I believe it had not been. Not entirely, at least. Dotty thought of Harriet all the afternoon, and walked about the house with a demureness quite unusual.

"O, Prudy!" said she, when they two were alone in the parlor, looking over a book of engravings, "I'm going to tell you some[35]thing; 'twill make you scream right out loud, and your hair stick up!"

I'm going . . . Read More