But if Ann’s interference was blamable, it was productive of one good result—­the matter came to Mr. Atherton’s ears, and he had a stern sense of justice when roused, and a great veneration for his mother.  His father’s will should be carried out to the letter, he declared; and it was.  Grandma baked and boiled in peace, outwardly, at least, after that.

Ann was a great comfort to her; she was outgrowing her wild, mischievous ways, and she was so bright and quick.  She promised to be pretty, too.  Grandma compared her favorably with her own grandchildren, especially, Mrs. Dorcas’ eldest daughter Martha, who was nearly Ann’s age.  “Marthy’s a pretty little gal enough,” she used to say, “but she ain’t got the snap to her that Ann has, though I wouldn’t tell Atherton’s wife so, for the world.”

She promised Ann her gold beads, when she should be done with them, under strict injunctions not to say anything about it till the time came; for the others might feel hard as she wasn’t her own flesh and blood.  The gold beads were Ann’s ideals of beauty, and richness, though she did not like to hear Grandma talk about being “done with them.”  Grandma always wore them around her fair, plump old neck; she had never seen her without her string of beads.

As before said, Ann was now very seldom mischievous enough to make herself serious trouble; but, once in a while, her natural propensities would crop out.  When they did, Mrs. Dorcas was exceedingly bitter.  Indeed, her dislike of Ann was, at all times, smouldering, and needed only a slight fanning to break out.

One stormy winter day, Mrs. Dorcas had been working till dark, making candle-wicks.  When she came to get tea, she tied the white fleecy rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung them up in the cellar-way, over the stairs, to be out of the way.  They were extra fine wicks, being made of flax for the company candles.  “I’ve got a good job done,” said Mrs. Dorcas, surveying them complacently.  Her husband had gone to Boston, and was not coming home till the next day, so she had had a nice chance to work at them, without as much interruption as usual.

Ann, going down the cellar-stairs, with a lighted candle, after some butter for tea, spied the beautiful rolls swinging overhead.  What possessed her to, she could not herself have told—­she certainly had no wish to injure Mrs. Dorcas’ wicks—­but she pinched up a little end of the fluffy flax and touched her candle to it.  She thought she would see how that little bit would burn off.  She soon found out.  The flame caught, and ran like lightning through the whole bundle.  There was a great puff of fire and smoke, and poor Mrs. Dorcas’ fine candle-wicks were gone.  Ann screamed, and sprang downstairs.  She barely escaped the whole blaze coming in her face.

“What’s that!” shrieked Mrs. Dorcas, rushing to the cellar-door.  Words can not describe her feeling when she saw that her nice candle-wicks, the fruit of her day’s toil, were burnt up.