Aunt Betsy was a rheumatic, and always ailing, and the child could not
remember the time when her beautiful, patient mamma was not very, very
sad. Although she smiled often on her little daughter, it seemed as if
there were tears right behind the smiles, just like rain-drops shining
through the rays of the sun. And when she crept close to her at night she
could feel the long lashes sweep her cheek, and they were so often wet.

The negroes on the place, especially the older ones, would grumble out
their aches and pains to the child, as if they thought she had the gift of
healing. And indeed she had, in her way.

For when old Squire split his foot open with an ax, they lived so far in
the country they couldn't get a physician every time it needed attention,
and her kind, brave mamma undertook to dress the wound herself every
morning. She would let the deft little fingers squeeze a sponge full of
tepid water over the cut as many times as it was necessary, then hold the
scissors and bandages, and help in other ways. And old Squire said the
tender, compassionate little face "ho'ped 'im as much as Miss July did."

Those that need sympathy intuitively know where to get it. It's just like
the flowers reaching out for sun and dew.

I expect the city children who read this story feel very sorry for
Roberta because she lived in the country. But they needn't be, for she was
never lonely and scarcely ever idle. The older negroes on the place said
she was like "ole missus" (that was her grandmother) in her ways. And
among other things they told about the old lady, to show how stirring she
was and what a manager, was her method of arousing the household to their
duties in the beginning of the week: "Wake up! wake up! I say. To-day's
Monday, to-morrow's Tuesday, next day's Wednesday, next day's Thursday,