As she slipped her hand around the post to unfasten the chain that held the gate, little bare feet came pattering behind her, and a shrill voice called:  “Wait, Betty, wait a minute!” It was Davy Appleton.  Betty’s little lamb, they called him, and Betty’s shadow, and Betty’s sticking-plaster, because everywhere she went there was Davy just at her heels.

All the Appleton children were boys,—­three younger and two older than Davy, whose last birthday cake should have had eight candles if there had been any celebration of the event.  But there never had been a birthday cake with candles on it on the Appleton table.  It would have been considered a foolish waste of time and money, and birthdays came and went sometimes, without the children knowing that they had passed.

Davy was a queer little fellow.  He tagged along after Betty, switching at the grass with a whip he carried, never saying a word after that first eager call for her to wait.  The two never tired of each other.  He was content to follow and ask no questions, for he had learned long ago to look twice before he spoke once.  As he caught up with her at the gate, he did not even ask where she was going, knowing that he would find out in due time if he only followed far enough.

He did not have to follow far to-day.  Betty led the way across the road to a plain little wooden church, set back in a grove of cedar-trees.  Behind the church was a graveyard, where they often strolled on summer afternoons, through the tangle of grass and weeds and myrtle vines, to read the names on the tombstones and smell the pinks and lilies that struggled up year after year above the neglected mounds.  But that was not their errand to-day.  A little red bookcase inside the church was the attraction.  Betty had only lately discovered it, although it had stood for years on a back bench in a cobwebby corner.

It held all that was left of a scattered Sunday-school library, that had been in use two generations before.  Queer little books they were, time-yellowed and musty smelling, but to story-loving little Betty, hungry for something new, they seemed a veritable gold-mine.  She had found that no key barred her way into this little red treasure-house of a bookcase, and a board propped against the wall under the window outside gave her an easy entrance into the church.  Here she came day after day, when her work was done, to pore over the musty old volumes of tales forgotten long ago.

In Betty’s little room under the roof at home was a pile of handsomely bound books, lying on a chest beside her mother’s Bible.  They were twelve in all, and had come in several different Christmas boxes, and each one had Betty’s name on the fly-leaf, with the date of the Christmas on which it happened to be sent.  Underneath was always written:  “From your loving godmother, Elizabeth Lloyd Sherman.”