her hand on the door-knob.

She opened the door just a crack and peeped in. Her mother laid her
finger on her lips, and beckoned silently. In another instant Lloyd was
in her lap. She had cried herself quiet in the dark corner under the
piano; but there was something more pathetic in her eyes than tears. It
was the expression of one who understood and sympathized.

"Oh, mothah," she whispered, "we does have such lots of troubles."

"Yes, chickabiddy, but I hope they will soon be over now," was the
answer, as the anxious face tried to smile bravely for the child's sake,
"Papa is sleeping so nicely now he is sure to be better in the morning."

That comforted the Little Colonel some, but for days she was haunted by
the fear of the poorhouse.

Every time her mother paid out any money she looked anxiously to see how
much was still left. She wandered about the place, touching the trees
and vines with caressing hands, feeling that she might soon have to
leave them.

She loved them all so dearly,--every stick and stone, and even the
stubby old snowball bushes that never bloomed.

Her dresses were outgrown and faded, but no one had any time or thought
to spend on getting her new ones. A little hole began to come in the toe
of each shoe.

She was still wearing her summer sunbonnet, although the days were