TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources.

More detail can be found at the [end of the book.]

'TILDA JANE

Works of

Marshall Saunders

Rose à Charlitte

Her Sailor

Deficient Saints

For His Country and Grandmother and
the Crow

'Tilda Jane

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY,

Publishers

200 Summer Street, Boston, Mass.

"SHE SPELLED OUT THE INFORMATION, 'I AM AN ORPHAN.'"

(See [page 80])

'TILDA JANE

AN ORPHAN IN SEARCH OF A HOME

A Story for Boys and Girls

BY
MARSHALL SAUNDERS
AUTHOR OF "BEAUTIFUL JOE," "FOR HIS COUNTRY,"
"ROSE À CHARLITTE," "HER SAILOR,"
"DEFICIENT SAINTS," ETC.

Illustrated by

CLIFFORD CARLETON

By courtesy of The Youth's Companion

"My brother, when thou seest a poor man,
behold in him a mirror of the Lord."
—St. Francis of Assisi.

BOSTON

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY

1901

Copyright, 1901
By Perry Mason Company
Copyright, 1901
By L. C. Page & Company
(Incorporated)
All rights reserved

Colonial Press

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

I DEDICATE THIS STORY TO
EMILE HUGUENIN, JEAN BRUN,
GERALD MUIR, SANFORD ROTHENBURG,
HARRY KRUGER, MAUGHS BROWN,
AND
ROBBIE MACLEAN,
BOYS OF BELMONT SCHOOL WHO USED TO GATHER ROUND ME
ON SUNDAY AFTERNOONS AND BEG FOR A MANUSCRIPT
READING OF THE TRIALS OF MY ORPHAN
IN SEARCH OF A HOME.

Owing to the exigencies of serial publication, the story of "'Tilda Jane," as it appeared in The Youth's Companion, was somewhat condensed. In the present version the omitted portions have been restored, and the story published in its original form.

[CONTENTS.]

[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.]

'TILDA JANE.

[CHAPTER I.]
A CREAMERY SHARK.

The crows had come back. With the fashionables of Maine they had gone south for the winter, but now on the third day of March the advance guard of the solemn, black army soared in sight.

They were cawing over the green pine woods of North Marsden, they were cawing over the black spruces of South Marsden, and in Middle Marsden, where the sun had melted the snow on a few exposed knolls, they were having a serious and chattering jubilation over their return to their summer haunts.

"Land! ain't they sweet!" muttered a little girl, who was herself almost as elfish and impish as a crow. She stood with clasped hands in the midst of a spruce thicket. Her face was upturned to the hot sun set in the hard blue of the sky. The sun burned her, the wind chilled her, but she remained motionless, except when the sound of sleigh-bells was heard. Then she peered eagerly out into the road.

Time after time she returned to her hiding-place with a muttered, "No good!" She allowed a priest to go by, two gossiping women on their way from the village to spend a day in the country, a minister hurrying to the sick-bed of a parishioner, and several loaded wood-sleds, but finally a hilarious jingle drew her hopefully from her retreat.

Her small black eyes screwed themselves into two glittering points as she examined the newcomer.

"He'll do!" she ejaculated; then, with a half-caressing, half-threatening, "You'll get murdered if there's a word out o' you," addressed to an apparent roll of cloth tucked among spruce branches a few feet from the ground, she stepped out by the snake fence.

"Hello, mister!"

The fat young man bobbing over the "thank-you-ma'ams" of the snowy road, pulled himself up with a jerk in his small sleigh drawn by a long-legged mare.

"Coronation! Where did that noise come from? Hello, wood-lark," as he observed the little girl peeping at him through the fence, "is there a hawk in your nest?"

"Who be you?" she asked.

"I've got an awful pretty name," he replied, flicking his whip over the snow-bank beside him, "too pretty to tell."

"Who be you?" she asked, pertinaciously.

"Ever hear tell of a creamery shark?"

"I didn't know as sharks favoured cream," she said, soberly.

"They dote on it."

"Be you a creamery shark?"

"No—course not. I'm chasing one. I'm a farmer."

The small, keen-eyed girl looked him all over. He was the creamery shark himself, and he certainly had an oily, greasy appearance befitting his fondness for cream. However, she did not care what he was if he served her purpose.

"Will you gimme a lift?" she asked.

"A lift—where?"

"Anywhere out o' this," and she pointed back to the smart, white village up the river.

"Now what be you?" he said, cunningly.

"I be a runaway."

"What you running from?"

"I'm a-runnin' from an orphan 'sylum."

"Good for you—where you going?"

"I'm goin' to Orstralia."

"Better for you—what you going there for?"

"'Cause," she said, firmly, "they know how to treat orphans there. They don't shut 'em up together like a lot o' sick pigs. They scatter 'em in families. The gover'ment pays their keep till they get old enough to fend for themselves. Then they gets a sum o' money an' they works—I heard a lady-board readin' it in a newspaper."

"A lady-board?"

"Yes—lady-boards has to run 'sylums."

"Course they do. Well, skip in, little un."

"'WELL, I VUM!'"

[Back to LOI]

"There's another passenger," she said, firmly; "an' them as takes me takes him."

"Have you got your granddaddy along?"

"No, siree, but I've got somethin' mos' as good as a granddaddy, an' I'd thank you to keep a straight tongue when you speak of him."

The young man put the offending tongue in his cheek, and chuckled enjoyably as the small, elfish figure disappeared in the wood. Presently she returned with a good-sized bundle in her arms, that she thrust through the fence.

"Give it a name," said the young man; "why, see how it's wiggling—must be some kind of an animal. Cat, weasel, rabbit, hen, dog—"

"Stop there," she ejaculated; "let it be dog. His name's Gippie."

"Well, I vum!" the young man said, good-naturedly, as she approached the sleigh and deposited her beshawled dog on his knees.

"I guess this sleigh warn't built for two," she said, as she crawled in beside him.

"Right you are; but you don't want to be carted far."

"Gimme that dog," she said, taking the bundle, "an' start off. Prob'ly they're just hitchin' up to be after me."

He clicked his tongue to the long-legged mare, and speedily fences and trees began to fly by them.

"What did you twig me for?" asked the fat young man. "Ain't you had no other chance?"

"Lots," she said, briefly.

"There was an ole boy ahead o' me with a two-seated rig, an' a youngster on the back seat. Why didn't you freeze on to him?"

She turned her little dark face toward him, a little face overspread by sudden passion. "D'ye know what that ole shell-back would 'a' done?"

"He'd 'a' took ye in."

"He'd 'a' druv me back to that 'sylum. He looked too good, that one. You looked like a baddie."

"Much obliged," he said, dryly.

"I guess you've done bad things," she said, inexorably. "You've stole pies, an' tole lies, an' fed dogs an' cats on the sly. I guess you've been found out."

The fat young man fell into a sudden reverie, and they passed several white fields in silence.

"They'll never ketch me," she said at last, gleefully; "we're goin' like the wind."

The young man looked down at her. She had the appearance of a diminutive witch as she sat with one hand clasping her faded hat, the other holding firmly to the bundle on her lap. Her countenance was so much older and shrewder in some phases than in others that the young man was puzzled to guess her age.

"Why, you ain't got any cloak," he said. "That's nothing but a dress you've got on, ain't it? Take the shawl off that dog."

"No, sir," she said, decidedly, "I don't do that."

"Hold on; I've got a horse blanket here," and he dived under the seat. "There!" and he wrapped it around her shoulders.

"Thanks," she said, briefly, and again her bird-like eyes scanned the road ahead.

"Hot cakes an' syrup!" she exclaimed, in a voice of resigned distress, "there's the North Marsden lady-board comin'. They must have 'phoned her. Say, mister, lemme sneak under here. If she holes you up, you'll have to tell a lie."

The young man grinned delightedly as the little girl slipped through the blanket and disappeared under the lap-robe. Then he again went skimming over the snow.

There was a very grand sleigh approaching him, with a befurred coachman on the seat driving a pair of roan horses, and behind him a gray-haired lady smothered in handsome robes.

"Please stop!" she called pathetically, to the approaching young man.

The creamery shark pulled up his mare, and blinked thoughtfully at her.

"Oh, have you seen a little girl?" she said excitedly; "a poor little girl, very thin and miserable, and with a lame, brown dog limping after her? She's wandering somewhere—the unfortunate, misguided child. We have had such trouble with her at the Middle Marsden Asylum—the orphan asylum, you know. We have fed her and clothed her, and now she's run away."

The fat young man became preternaturally solemn, the more so as he heard a low growl somewhere in the region of his feet.

"Did she have black hair as lanky as an Injun's?" he asked.

"Yes, yes."

"And a kind o' sickly green dress?"

"Oh, yes, and a dark complexion."

"And a sort of steely air as if she'd dare the world?"

"That's it; oh, yes, she wasn't afraid of any one."

"Then I've sighted your game," he said, gravely, very gravely, considering that the "game" was pinching one of his legs.

"I'll give you the scent," he went on. "Just follow this road till you come to the three pine-trees at the cross. Then turn toward Spruceville."

"Oh, thank you, thank you. I'm ever so much obliged. But was she on foot or driving?"

"Driving like sixty, sitting up on the seat beside a smooth old farmer with a red wig on, and a face as long as a church."

"A red wig!" exclaimed the lady. "Why, that's Mr. Dabley—he's one of our advisory committee."

"Dabley or Grabley, he's driving with one of your orphans. I see her as plain as day sitting beside him—brown face, faded black hat, sickly green frock, bundle on her lap."

"Farmer Dabley—incredible! How one can be deceived. Drive on, Matthew. We must try to overtake them. Had he one horse or two?"

"A pair, ma'am—a light-legged team—a bay and a cream. He's a regular old sport."

"He's a Mephistopheles if he's helping that child to escape," said the lady, warmly. "I'll give him a piece of my mind."

Her coachman started his horses, and the little girl under the robe was beginning to breathe freely when a shout from the young man brought her heart to her mouth.

"Say, ma'am, was that a striped or a plain shawl she had her dog wrapped in?"

"Striped—she had the impudence to steal it from the matron, and leave a note saying she did it because her jacket was locked up, and she was afraid her dog would freeze—I'm under a great obligation to you, sir."

"No obligation," he said, lifting his hat. "I'm proud to set you on the chase after such a bad young one. That's your girl, ma'am. Her shawl was striped. I didn't tell you she had the nerve to ask me to take her in."

"Not really—did she?" the lady called back; then she added, wonderingly, "but I thought you met her driving with Farmer Dabley?"

They had both turned around, and were talking over their shoulders.

There was a terrible commotion under the lap-robe, and the young man felt that he must be brief.

"If you bark I'll break your neck," he heard the refugee say in a menacing whisper, and, to cover a series of protesting growls, he shouted, lustily, "Yes, ma'am, but first I passed her on foot. Then I turned back, and she was with the farmer. That young one has got the face of a government mule, but I'm used to mules, and when she asked me I said, ''Pears to me, little girl, you favour a runaway, and I ain't got no room for runaways in this narrow rig, 'specially as I'm taking a bundle of clothing to my dear old father'—likewise a young pig," he added, as there was a decided squeal from between his feet.

"Thank you, thank you," came faintly after him as he started off at a spanking gait, and, "You're badder than I thought you was," came reproachfully from the tumbled head peeping above the lap-robe.

"You're grateful!" he said, ironically.

"I'm bad, but I only asked the Lord to forgive the lies I'd got to tell," said the little girl as she once more established herself on the seat. "You should 'a' said, 'No, ma'am, I didn't see the little girl'—an' druv on."

"I guess you're kind of mixed in your opinions," he remarked.

"I ain't mixed in my mind. I see things as straight as that air road," she replied. "I said, 'This is a bad business, for I've got to run away, but I'll be as square as I can.'"

She paused suddenly, and her companion asked, "What's up with you?"

"Nothin'," she said, faintly, "only I feel as if there was a rat inside o' me. You ain't got any crackers round, have you?"

"No, but I've got something better," and he drew a flask from the pocket of his big ulster and put it to her mouth.

Her nostrils dilated. "I'm a Loyal Legion girl."

"Loyal Legion—what's that?"

"Beware of bottles, beware of cups,

Evil to him who evil sups."

"Oh! a temperance crank," and he laughed. "Well, here's a hunk of cake I put in my pocket last night."

The little girl ate with avidity the section of a rich fruit loaf he handed her.

"How about your dog?" asked the young man.

"Oh, I guess he ain't hungry," she said, putting a morsel against the brown muzzle thrust from the shawl. "Everythin' was locked up last night, an' there warn't enough lunch for him an' me—see, he ain't for it. He knows when hunger stops an' greed begins. That's poetry they taught us."

"Tell us about that place you've been raised. No, stop—you're kind of peaked-looking. Settle down an' rest yourself till we pull up for dinner. I'll gabble on a bit if you'll give me a starter."

"I guess you favour birds an' things, don't you?" she observed, shrewdly.

"Yaw—do you?"

"Sometimes I think I'm a bird," she said, vehemently, "or a worm or somethin'. If I could 'a' caught one o' them crows this mornin' I'd 'a' hugged it an' kissed it. Ain't they lovely?"

"Well, I don' know about lovely," said the young man, in a judicial manner, "but the crow, as I take him, is a kind of long-suffering orphan among birds. From the minute the farmers turn up these furrows under the snow, the crow works like fury. Grubs just fly down his red throat, and grasshoppers ain't nowhere, but because he now and then lifts a hill o' petetters, and pulls a mite o' corn when it gets toothsome, and makes way once in so often with a fat chicken that's a heap better out o' the world than in it, the farmers is down on him, the Legislature won't protect him, and the crow—man's good friend—gets shot by everybody and everything!"

"I wish I was a queen," said the little girl, passionately.

"Well, sissy, if you ever get to be one, just unmake a few laws that are passed to please the men who have a pull. Here in Maine you might take the bounty off bob-cats, an' let 'em have their few sheep, an' you might stand between the mink and the spawning trout, and if you want to put a check on the robins who make war on the cherries an' strawberries, I guess it would be more sensible than chasing up the crows."

"I'm remarkin' that you don't beat your horse," said his companion, abruptly.

"That mare," said the young man, reflectively, "is as smart as I be, and sometimes I think a thought smarter."

"You wouldn't beat that little dog," she said, holding up her bundle.

"Bet your striped shawl I wouldn't."

"I like you," she said, emphatically. "I guess you ain't as bad as you look."

The young man frowned slightly, and fell into another reverie.

[CHAPTER II.]
EVEN SHARKS HAVE TENDER HEARTS.

The old Moss Glen Inn, elm-shaded and half covered by creeping vines, is a favourite resort for travellers in the eastern part of Maine, for there a good dinner can be obtained in a shorter space of time than in any other country hotel in the length and breadth of the State.

"And all because there's a smart woman at the head of it," explained the young man to the little waif beside him. "There she is—always on hand."

A round, good-natured face, crowning a rotund, generous figure, smiled at them from the kitchen window, but while the eyes smiled, the thick, full lips uttered a somewhat different message to a tall, thin woman, bending over the stove.

"Ruth Ann, here's that soapy Hank Dillson round again,—takin' in the farmers, as usual, engagin' them to pay for machinery and buildings more than are needed, considerin' the number of their cows, an' he's got a washed-out lookin' young one with him. She'll make a breach in the victuals, I guess."

Ruth Ann, who was her sister and helper in household affairs, came and looked over her shoulder, just as Dillson sprang from the sleigh.

Mrs. Minley stepped to the door, and stood bobbing and smiling as he turned to her.

"How de do, Mrs. Minley. Give this little girl a place to lie down till dinner's ready, will you? She's dead beat."

'Tilda Jane walked gravely into the kitchen, and although her head was heavy, and her feet as light as if they were about to waft her to regions above, she took time to scrutinise the broad face that would have been generous but for the deceitful lips, and also to cast a glance at the hard, composed woman at the window, who looked as if her head, including the knob of tightly curled hair at the back, had been carved from flint.

"Step right in this way," said Mrs. Minley, bustling into a small bedroom on the ground floor.

'Tilda Jane was not used to being waited on, and for one proud moment she wished that the children in the orphan asylum could see her. Then a feeling of danger and insecurity overcame her, and she sank on one of the painted, wooden chairs.

"You're done out," said Mrs. Minley, sympathetically. "Are you a relation of Mr. Dillson's?"

"No, I ain't."

"You can lie on that bed if you like," said Mrs. Minley, noticing the longing glance cast at it.

"Well, I guess I will," said 'Tilda Jane, placing her bundle on a chair, and stooping down to unloose her shoes.

"Stop till I get some newspapers to put on the bed," said the landlady—"what's in that package? It's moving," and she stared at the shawl.

"It's a dog."

"Mercy me! I don't allow no dogs in my house."

"All right," said the little girl, patiently putting on her shoes again.

"What you going to do, child?"

"I'm goin' to the wood-shed. Them as won't have my dog won't have me."

"Land sakes, child, stay where you be! I guess he can't do no harm if you'll watch him."

"No ma'am, he'll not rampage. He's little, an' he's ole, an' he's lame, an' he don't care much for walkin'. Sometimes you'll hear nothin' out o' him all day but a growl or a snap."

The landlady drew away from the bundle, and after she had seen the tired head laid on the pillow, she softly closed the door of the room.

In two minutes 'Tilda Jane was asleep. The night before she had not dared to sleep. To-day, under the protection of the creamery shark, she could take her rest, her hunger satisfied by the cake he had given her in the sleigh. The shark crept in once to look at her. "Ain't she a sight?" he whispered to Mrs. Minley, who accompanied him, "a half-starved monkey."

She playfully made a thrust at his ribs. "Oh, go 'long with you—always making your jokes! How can a child look like a monkey?"

He smiled, well pleased at her cajoling tone, then, stretching himself out in an armchair, he announced that dinner must be postponed for an hour to let the child have her sleep out.

Mrs. Minley kept a pleasant face before him, but gave vent to some suppressed grumbling in the kitchen. With fortitude remarkable in a hungry man, he waited until one o'clock, then, losing patience, he ate his dinner, and, telling Mrs. Minley that he had business in the neighbourhood, and would not be back until supper-time, he drove away in his sleigh.

At six o'clock 'Tilda Jane felt herself gently shaken, and opening her eyes, she started up in alarm.

"All right—'tain't the police," said Mrs. Minley. "I know all about you, little girl. You needn't be scared o' me. Get up and have a bite of supper. Mr. Dillson's going away, and he wants to see you."

'Tilda Jane rose and put on her shoes in silence. Then she followed the landlady to the next room. For an instant she staggered back. She had never before seen such a huge, open fireplace, never had had such a picture presented to her in the steam-heated orphanage. Fresh from troubled dreams, it seemed as if these logs were giants' bodies laid crosswise. The red flames were from their blood that was being licked up against the sooty stones. Then the ghastliness vanished, and she approvingly took in the picture,—the fat young creamery shark standing over the white cat and rubbing her with his toe, the firelight on the wall and snowy table, and the big lamp on the mantel.

"Hello!" he exclaimed, turning around, "did you make your sleep out?"

"Yes sir," she said, briefly. "Where shall I put this dog?"

"Don't put him nowhere till we turn this cat out. Scat, pussy!" and with his foot he gently assisted the small animal kitchenwards.

"Now you can roast your pup here," he said, pointing to the vacated corner.

"Don't touch him," warned 'Tilda Jane, putting aside his outstretched hand. "He nips worse'n a lobster."

"Fine dog that," said the young man, ironically. "Come on now, let's fall to. I guess that rat's rampaging again."

"Yes, he's pretty bad," said 'Tilda Jane, demurely; and she seated herself in the place indicated.

Mrs. Minley waited on them herself, and, as she passed to and fro between the dining-room and kitchen, she bestowed many glances on the lean, lank, little girl with the brown face.

After a time she nudged Hank with her elbow. "Look at her!"

Hank withdrew his attention for a minute from his plate to cast a glance at the downcast head opposite. Then he dropped his knife and fork. "Look here! I call this kind of low-down."

'Tilda Jane raised her moist eyes.

"You've got ham and eggs; fried petetters and toast, and two kinds of preserve, and hot rolls and coffee, and cake and doughnuts, which is more'n you ever got at the asylum, I'll warrant, and yet you're crying,—and after all the trouble you've been to me. There's no satisfying some people."

'Tilda Jane wiped her eyes. "I ain't a-cryin' for the 'sylum," she said, stolidly.

"Then what are you crying for?"

"I'm cryin' 'cause it's such a long way to Orstralia, an' I don't know no one. I wish you was a-goin'."

"I wish I was, but I ain't. Come on now, eat your supper."

"I suppose I be a fool," she muttered, picking up her knife and fork. "I've often heard I was."

"Hi now—I guess you feel better, don't you?" said the young man, twenty minutes later.

He was in excellent humour himself, and, sitting tilted back in his chair by the fireplace, played a tune on his big white teeth with a toothpick.

"Yes, I guess I'm better," said 'Tilda Jane, soberly. "That was a good supper."

"Hadn't you better feed your pup?" asked the young man. "Seems to me he must be dead, he's so quiet."

"He's plumb beat out, I guess," said the little girl, and she carefully removed the dog's queer drapery.

A little, thin, old, brown cur staggered out, with lips viciously rolled back, and a curious unsteadiness of gait.

"Steady, old boy," said the young man; "my soul and body, he ain't got but three legs! Whoa—you're running into the table."

"He don't see very well," said 'Tilda Jane, firmly. "His eyes is poor."

"What's the matter with his tail? It don't seem to be hung on right."

"It wobbles from having tin cans tied to it. Gippie dear, here's a bone."

"Gippie dear," muttered the young man. "I'd shoot him if he was my dog."

"If that dog died, I'd die," said the little girl, passionately.

"We've got to keep him alive, then," said the young man, good-humouredly. "Can't you give him some milk?"

She poured out a saucer full and set it before him. The partially blind dog snapped at the saucer, snapped at her fingers until he smelled them and discovered whose they were, then he finally condescended to lick out the saucer.

"And you like that thing?" said the young man, curiously.

"Like him!—I love him," said 'Tilda Jane, affectionately stroking the brown, ugly back.

"And when did he give away that leg?"

She shook her head. "It's long to tell. I guess you'd ask me to shut up afore I got through."

[CHAPTER III.]
THE STORY OF HER LIFE.

The young man said nothing more at the time, but ten minutes later, when he was thoughtfully smoking a long brown pipe, and 'Tilda Jane sat in a chair beside him, rocking her dog, he called out to Mrs. Minley, who was hovering about the room. "Sit down, Mrs. Minley. P'raps you can get this little girl to talk; I can't."

'Tilda Jane turned sharply to him. "Oh, mister, I'd do anything for you. I'll talk."

"Well, reel it off then. I've got to start soon."

"What d'ye want to know?" she said, doggedly.

"Everything; tell me where you started from. Was you born in the asylum?"

"Nobody don't know where I was born. Nobody don't know who I am, 'cept that a woman come to the poorhouse with me to Middle Marsden when I was a baby. She died, an' I was left. They give me the name of 'Tilda Jane Harper, an' put me in the 'sylum. Children come an' went. Just as soon as I'd get to like 'em they'd be 'dopted; I never was 'dopted, 'cause I'm so ugly. My eyes ought to 'a' been blue, an' my hair curly. I might 'a' been a servant, but my habits was in the way."

"Habits—what habits?" asked Hank.

"Habits of impidence an' pig-headedness. When the men come to kill the pigs I'd shut myself in my room, an' put my fingers in my ears, an' I couldn't hear, but I'd always squeal when the pigs squealed."

"Is that why you wouldn't eat your ham just now?"

"Oh, that ain't ham to me," she said, eloquently. "That bit o' red meat was a cunnin', teeny white pig runnin' round a pen, cryin' 'cause the butcher's after him. I couldn't eat it, any more'n I'd eat my brother."

"You're a queer little kite," interjected the young man, and he exchanged an amused glance with Mrs. Minley, who was swaying gently back and forth in a rocking-chair.

"So you wasn't very much set up at the asylum?" he went on.

"I guess I'm too bad for a 'sylum. Once our washerwoman took me home to supper. I guess heaven must be like that. They had a cat, too. I used to get in most trouble at the 'sylum 'bout cats. When starvin' ones came rubbin' up agin me in the garden, I couldn't help sneakin' them a bit o' bread from the pantry. It beats all, how cats find out people as likes 'em. Then I'd get jerked up."

"Jerked up?" repeated her interlocutor.

"Locked in my room, or have my hands slapped. Once I took a snake in the house. He was cold, but he got away from me, an' the matron found him in her bed. She whipped me that time."

"Was that what made you run away?"

"No, I run away on account o' this dog. You call up the cold spell we had a week ago?"

"You bet—I was out in it."

"Well, there come the coldest night. The matron give us extry blankets, but I couldn't sleep. I woke up in the middle o' the night, an' I thought o' that dog out in the stable. 'He'll freeze,' I said, an' when I said it, it seemed as if icicles were stickin' into me. I was mos' crazy. I got up an' looked out the window. There was a moon, an awful bitin', ugly kind of a moon grinnin' at me. I put on some clo'es, I slipped down-stairs, an' it seemed as if everythin' was yellin' in the cold. Every board an' every wall I touched went off like a gun, but no one woke, an' I got out in the stable.

"The horse was warm an' so was the cow, but this little dog was mos' froze. I tried to warm him, but my fingers got like sticks. Then I did a scand'lous thing. I says, 'I'll take him in bed with me an' warm him for a spell, an' no one'll know;' so I lugged him in the house, an' he cuddled down on my arm just so cunnin'. Then I tried to stay awake, so I could carry him out early in the mornin', but didn't I fall to sleep, an' the first thing I knowed there was the matron a-spearin' me with her eyes, an she put out her hand to ketch the dog, an' he up an' bit her, an' then there was trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" asked the young man.

"I had bread an' water for two days, an' the dog was shut up in the stable, an' then I was brought up before the lady-board."

"The lady-board," murmured Mrs. Minley; "what does the child mean?"

"The board of lady managers," explained Dillson.

"Tell us about it," he said to 'Tilda Jane.

The latter was keeping an eye on the clock. She knew that the time must soon come for her to part from her new-found friend. It was not in her nature to be very demonstrative, yet she could not altogether hide a certain feverishness and anxiety. One thing, however, she could do, and she subdued her emotion in order to do it. It amused the young man to hear her talk. She would suppress her natural inclination to silence and gravity, and try to entertain him. And the more she talked, possibly the longer he would stay.

Therefore she went on: "There they set round the table as big an' handsome as so many pies. One lady was at the top, an' she rapped on the table with a little hammer, an' said, ''Tention, ladies!' Then she says, 'Here is the 'fortinate object of dissection. What part shall we tackle fust? Name your wishes, ladies.' Then she stopped an' another lady begun, 'Mam pressiding, stake the case.'"

The young man took his pipe from his mouth, and Mrs. Minley ejaculated, "Mercy me!"

"Madam president, I guess," he said, gravely. "Go on, sissy."

'Tilda Jane went on, still with her eye on the clock, and still speaking feverishly. "The mam pressiding staked me out. Says she, 'Here is a little girl—she come to us like a lily o' the field; no dress on, no bunnit, no nothin'. We've fed an' clothed the lily, an' guv her good advice, an' she's lifted up her heel agin us. She deifies us, she introjuces toads an' snakes into the sacred presings of our sinningcherry for orphans. She packs a dirty dog in bed. We'll never levelate her. She's lowering the key of our 'stution. She knows not the place of reptiles an' quadruples. Ladies, shall we keep this little disturving lellement in our 'stution? If thy hand 'fend against thee cut it off. If thy foot straggle, treat it likewise.'

"Then she set down, an' another lady got up. Says she, 'I'm always for mercy—strained mercy dropping like juice from heaven. If this little girl is turned inside out, she'll be a bright an' shinin' light. I prepose that we make the 'speriment. The tastes is in her, but we can nip off the grati'cations. I remove that instead of disturving her, we disturve the animiles. Ladies, we has hard work to run this 'stution.'"

"This 'stution?" said the young man.

"Yes, 'stution," repeated 'Tilda Jane, "that's what they call the 'sylum. Well, this lady went on an' says she, 'Let's send away the cats an' dogs an' all the children's pets—squirrels an' pigeons an' rabbits, 'cause this little girl's disruptin' every child on the place. Once when cats come an' other animiles, they was stoned away. Now they're took in. I come across one little feller jus' now, an' instead o' learnin' his lesson he was playin' with a beetle. Ticklin' it with a straw, ladies. Now ain't that awful? We've got 'sponsibilities toward these foun'lings. I feels like a mother. If we sends 'em foolish out in the world we'll be blamed. Our faithful matron says it's unpossible to ketch rats an' mice. This little girl gets at the traps, an' let's 'em go. She's a born rule-smasher!'

"Then she closed her mouth an' set down, an' the big lady sittin' at the head o' the table pounded her hammer 'cause they all fell to jabberin'. Says she, 'Will some lady make a commotion?' Then one lady got up, an' she says, 'I remove that all animiles be decharged from this 'stution.'

"'What about the chickings?' called out another lady. 'You must declude them. This will go on record.' The other lady said, ''Scuse me, I forgot the chickings. I'll mend my dissolution. I remove that all quadruples be decharged from this 'stution.'

"That suited some, an' didn't suit t'others, an' there was a kind of chally-vally. One lady said she's mend the mendment, an' then the mam pressiding got kind o' mixy-maxy, an' said they'd better start all over agin, 'cause she'd lose her way 'mong so many mendments. After a long time, they got their ideas sot, an' they said that I was to stay, but all the animiles was to go. I didn't snuffle nor nothin', but I just said, 'Are you plannin' to kill that there dog?'

"The mam pressiding gave a squeal an' said, 'No, that would be cruel. They would give the dog to some little feller who would be good to him.' I said, 'Little fellers tie tin cans to dogs' tails'—an' then they got mad with me an' said I was trespicious. Then I said, 'All right,' 'cause what could I do agin a whole lot o' lady-boards? But I made up my mind I'd have to work my way out of it, 'cause it would kill that little dog to be took from me. So I run away."