hundreds of curious fables and quaint tales of the wildwood, Nan's
irritation disappeared.

As for Gabriel--Gabriel Tolliver--he was almost as indispensable as the
African woman. Children learn a good many things, as they grow older,
and I have heard that Nan and Gabriel were thought to be queer, and that
all who were much in their company were also thought to be queer. No
one knows why. It was a simple statement, and simple statements are
readily believed, because no one takes the trouble to inquire into them.
A man who has views different from those of the majority is called
eccentric; if he insists on promulgating them, he is known as a crank.
In the case of Nan and Gabriel, it may be said by one who knows, that,
while they were different from the majority of children, they were
neither queer nor eccentric.

They, and those whom they chose as companions, were children at a time
when the demoralisation of war was about to begin--when it was already
casting its long shadow before it--and when their elders were discussing
as hard as ever they could the questions of State rights, the true
interpretation of the Constitution, squatter sovereignty, the right of
secession--every question, in short, except the one at issue. In this
way, and for this reason, the two children and their companions were
thrown back upon themselves.

Of those who formed this merry little company, not one went to the
academies that had been established in the town early enough to be its
most ancient institutions. Nan was taught by her father, Randolph
Dorrington, and Gabriel and I said our lessons to his grandmother, Mrs.
Lucy Lumsden. Thus it happened that we were through with our school
tasks before the children in the two academies had begun their morning
recess.

"We would never have been such good friends," said Nan on one occasion,
"if I hadn't wanted to go to your house, Gabriel, to see how your
grandmother wavies her hair. I saw Cephas, and asked him to go along
with me." Child as she was, Nan had her little vanities. She desired
above all things that her hair should fall away from her brow in little
rippling waves, like those that shone in the silver-grey hair of
Gabriel's grandmother.

"Why, my grandmother doesn't wavie her hair at all," protested Gabriel.

"Of course not," replied Nan, with a toss of the hand; "I found that out
for myself. And I was very sorry; I want my hair to wavie like hers and
yours."

"Well, if your hair