Very soon after her arrival she was set to “winding quills,” so many every day.  Seated at Mrs. Polly’s side, in her little homespun gown, winding quills through sunny forenoons—­how she hated it.  She liked feeding the hens and pigs better, and when she got promoted to driving the cows, a couple of years later, she was in her element.  There were charming possibilities of nuts and checkerberries and sassafras and sweet flag all the way between the house and the pasture, and the chance to loiter, and have a romp.

She rarely showed any unwillingness to go for the cows; but once, when there was a quilting at her mistress’s house, she demurred.  It was right in the midst of the festivities; they were just preparing for supper, in fact.  Ann knew all about the good things in the pantry, she was wild with delight at the unwonted stir, and anxious not to lose a minute of it.  She thought some one else might go for the cows that night.  She cried and sulked, but there was no help for it.  Go she had to.  So she tucked up her gown—­it was her best Sunday one—­took her stick, and trudged along.  When she came to the pasture, there were her master’s cows waiting at the bars.  So were Neighbor Belcher’s cows also, in the adjoining pasture.  Ann had her hand on the topmost of her own bars, when she happened to glance over at Neighbor Belcher’s, and a thought struck her.  She burst into a peal of laughter, and took a step towards the other bars.  Then she went back to her own.  Finally, she let down the Belcher bars, and the Belcher cows crowded out, to the great astonishment of the Wales cows, who stared over their high rails and mooed uneasily.

Ann drove the Belcher cows home and ushered them into Samuel Wales’ barnyard with speed.  Then she went demurely into the house.  The table looked beautiful.  Ann was beginning to quake inwardly, though she still was hugging herself, so to speak, in secret enjoyment of her own mischief.  She had one hope—­that supper would be eaten before her master milked.  But the hope was vain.  When she saw Mr. Wales come in, glance her way, and then call his wife out, she knew at once what had happened, and begun to tremble—­she knew perfectly what Mr. Wales was saying out there.  It was this:  “That little limb has driven home all Neighbor Belcher’s cows instead of ours; what’s going to be done with her?”

She knew what the answer would be, too.  Mrs. Polly was a peremptory woman.

Back Ann had to go with the Belcher cows, fasten them safely in their pasture again, and drive her master’s home.  She was hustled off to bed, then, without any of that beautiful supper.  But she had just crept into her bed in the small unfinished room upstairs where she slept, and was lying there sobbing, when she heard a slow, fumbling step on the stairs.  Then the door opened, and Mrs. Deacon Thomas Wales, Samuel Wales’ mother, came in.  She was a good old lady, and had always taken a great fancy to her son’s bound girl; and Ann, on her part, minded her better than any one else.  She hid her face in the tow sheet, when she saw grandma.  The old lady had on a long black silk apron.  She held something concealed under it, when she came in.  Presently she displayed it.