possessed her heart. When they were hungry, they came like
chickens about her cabin-door, and being mistress of the kitchen,
she always had plenty of good, substantial crumbs for them;
and when they were sick, she nursed them with pitying care;
but this was about all the attention they received.

The baby engrossed every leisure moment she could command.
Many times a day she would pause in her work to caress it. She would
seat it upon the floor, amid a perfect bed of honeysuckle blossoms,
and bring the bright orange gourds that grew around the door
for its amusement. Sometimes a broken toy or a shining trinket,
which she had picked up in the house, or a smooth pebble from the yard,
would be added to the treasures of the little one. Then she would
come with food, the soft-boiled rice, or the sweet corn gruel,
she knew so well how to prepare; and often, often she would steal in,
as now, out of pure fondness, to watch its peaceful slumbers.

"Named the pickaninny yet?" asked the master one day, as he passed
the cabin, and carelessly looked in upon the mother and child
amusing themselves within. "'Tis time you did; 'most time to turn
her off now, you see."

"Oh, Massa, don't say dat word," answered the woman, imploringly.
"'Pears I couldn't b'ar to turn her off yet,--couldn't live
without her, no ways. Reckon I'll call her Tidy; dat ar's my
sister's name, and she's got dat same sweet look 'bout de eyes,--
don't you think so, Massa? Poor Tidy! she's"--and Annie stopped,
and a deep sigh, instead of words, filled up the sentence, and tears
dropped down upon the baby's forehead. Memory traveled back to that
dreadful night when this only sister had been dragged from her bed,