“But Sal Furbush,” said Miss Grundy, as she adjusted her head-gear, which was slightly displaced, “can’t she be shut up?  There’s bedlam to pay the whole durin’ time when she’s loose.”

Mr. Parker knew this very well, but before he had time to answer, Mary looked pleadingly in his face, and said, “if you please, don’t shut her up.  She was not to blame, for I asked her to help me.”

“Wall, wall, we’ll let her off this time, I guess,” said he; and as Uncle Peter just then put his head into the window, saying that “the lord of the manor was wanted without,” Mr. Parker left, glad to get out of the muss so easily.  No sooner was he gone, than Sal, catching up the cradle, sorted for the stairs, saying, “I won’t work, but I can, and will take care of little Willie, and I choose to do it in a more congenial atmosphere.”  Then, as Mary looked a little startled, she added, “Never you fear, dearie, Sal knows what she’s about, and she won’t make the little boy the least bit of a face.”

From that time there was no more trouble with Alice during the day, for she seemed to cling naturally to Sally, who hour after hour rocked and took care of her, while Mary, in the kitchen below, was busy with the thousand things which Miss Grundy found for her to do.

CHAPTER VII.

THE LINCOLNS

Mary had been at the poor-house about three weeks, when Miss Grundy one day ordered her to tie on her sun-bonnet, and run across the meadow and through the woods until she came to a rye stubble, then follow the footpath along the fence until she came to another strip of woods, with a brook running through it.  “And just on the fur edge of them woods,” said she, “you’ll see the men folks to work; and do you tell ’em to come to their dinner quick.”

Mary tied her sun-bonnet and hurried off, glad to escape for a few moments from the hot kitchen, with its endless round of washing dishes, scouring knives, wiping door-sills, and dusting chairs.  She had no difficulty in finding the way and she almost screamed for joy, when she came suddenly upon the sparkling brook, which danced so merrily beneath the shadow of the tall woods.

“What a nice place this would be to sit and read,” was her first exclamation, and then she sighed as she thought how small were her chances for reading now.

Quickly her thoughts traversed the past, and her tears mingled with the clear water which flowed at her feet, as she recalled the time when, blessed with a father’s and mother’s love, she could go to school and learn as other children did.  She was roused from her sad reverie by the sound of voices, which she supposed proceeded from the men, whose tones, she fancied, were softer than usual.  “If I can hear them, they can hear me,” thought she, and shouting as loud as she could, she soon heard Mr. Parker’s voice in answer, saying he would come directly.