after that.

Ann was a great comfort to her; she was outgrowing her wild,
mischievous ways, and she was so bright and quick. She promised to be
pretty, too. Grandma compared her favorably with her own
grandchildren, especially, Mrs. Dorcas' eldest daughter Martha, who
was nearly Ann's age. "Marthy's a pretty little gal enough," she used
to say, "but she ain't got the _snap_ to her that Ann has, though I
wouldn't tell Atherton's wife so, for the world."

She promised Ann her gold beads, when she should be done with them,
under strict injunctions not to say anything about it till the time
came; for the others might feel hard as she wasn't her own flesh and
blood. The gold beads were Ann's ideals of beauty, and richness,
though she did not like to hear Grandma talk about being "done with
them." Grandma always wore them around her fair, plump old neck; she
had never seen her without her string of beads.

As before said, Ann was now very seldom mischievous enough to make
herself serious trouble; but, once in a while, her natural
propensities would crop out. When they did, Mrs. Dorcas was
exceedingly bitter. Indeed, her dislike of Ann was, at all times,
smouldering, and needed only a slight fanning to break out.

One stormy winter day, Mrs. Dorcas had been working till dark, making
candle-wicks. When she came to get tea, she tied the white fleecy
rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung them up in the
cellar-way, over the stairs, to be out of the way. They were extra
fine wicks, being made of flax for the company candles. "I've got a
good job done," said Mrs. Dorcas, surveying them complacently. Her