She went to a dame’s school three months every year.  Samuel Wales carted half a cord of wood to pay for her schooling, and she learned to write and read in the New England Primer.  Next to her, on the split log bench, sat a little girl named Hannah French.  The two became fast friends.  Hannah was an only child, pretty and delicate, and very much petted by her parents.  No long hard tasks were set those soft little fingers, even in those old days when children worked as well as their elders.  Ann admired and loved Hannah, because she had what she, herself, had not; and Hannah loved and pitied Ann because she had not what she had.  It was a sweet little friendship, and would not have been, if Ann had not been free from envy and Hannah humble and pitying.

When Ann told her what a long stint she had to do before school, Hannah would shed sympathizing tears.

Ann, after a solemn promise of secrecy, told her about the indentures one day.  Hannah listened with round, serious eyes; her brown hair was combed smoothly down over her ears.  She was a veritable little Puritan damsel herself.

“If I could only get the papers, I wouldn’t have to mind her, and work so hard,” said Ann.

Hannah’s eyes grew rounder.  “Why, it would be sinful to take them!” said she.

Ann’s cheeks blazed under her wondering gaze, and she said no more.

When she was about eleven years old, one icy January day, Hannah wanted her to go out and play on the ice after school.  They had no skates, but it was rare fun to slide.  Ann went home and asked Mrs. Polly’s permission with a beating heart; she promised to do a double stint next day, if she would let her go.  But her mistress was inexorable—­work before play, she said, always; and Ann must not forget that she was to be brought up to work; it was different with her from what it was with Hannah French.  Even this she meant kindly enough, but Ann saw Hannah go away, and sat down to her spinning with more fierce defiance in her heart than had ever been there before.  She had been unusually good, too, lately.  She always was, during the three months’ schooling, with sober, gentle little Hannah French.

She had been spinning sulkily a while, and it was almost dark, when a messenger came for her master and mistress to go to Deacon Thomas Wales’, who had been suddenly taken very ill.

Ann would have felt sorry if she had not been so angry.  Deacon Wales was almost as much of a favorite of hers as his wife.  As it was, the principal thing she thought of, after Mr. Wales and his wife had gone, was that the key was in the desk.  However it had happened, there it was.  She hesitated a moment.  She was all alone in the kitchen, and her heart was in a tumult of anger, but she had learned her lessons from the Bible and the New England Primer, and she was afraid of the sin.  But at last she opened the desk, found the indentures, and hid them in the little pocket which she wore tied about her waist, under her petticoat.