rs. L'Oiseau had but one
child, a little girl, Jacquelina, now about eight or nine years of age.

Commodore Waugh had given them the cottage to live in, permission to
make a living, if they could, out of the poor land attached to it. This
was all the help he had afforded his poor niece, and all, as she said,
that she could reasonably expect from one who had so many dependents.
For several years past the little property had afforded her a bare
subsistence.

And now this year the long drought had parched up her garden and
corn-field, and her cows had failed in their yield of milk for the want
of grass.

It was upon a dry and burning day, near the last of August, that Mary
L'Oiseau and her daughter sat down to their frugal breakfast. And such a
frugal breakfast! The cheapest tea, with brown sugar, and a corn cake
baked upon the griddle, and a little butter--that was all! It was spread
upon a plain pine table without a tablecloth.

The furniture of the room was in keeping--a sanded floor, a chest of
drawers, with a small looking-glass, ornamented by a sprig of asparagus,
a dresser of rough pine shelves on the right of the fireplace, and a
cupboard on the left, a half-dozen chip-bottomed chairs, a
spinning-wheel, and a reel and jack, completed the appointments.

Mrs. L'Oiseau was devouring the contents of a letter, which ran thus:

"MARY, MY DEAR! I feel as if I had somewhat neglected you, but, the truth
is, my arm is not long enough to stretch from Luckenough to Old Fields.
That being the case, and myself and Old Hen being rather lonesome since
Edith's ungrateful desertion, we beg you to take little Jacko, and come
live with us as long as we may live--and of what may come after that we
will talk at some time. If you will be ready I will send the carriage for
you on Saturday.

"YOUR UNCLE NICK."

Mrs. L'Oiseau read this letter with a changing cheek--when she finished
it she folded and laid it aside in silence.

Then she called to her side her child--her Jacquelina--her Sans
Souci--as for her gay, thoughtless temper she was called. I should here
describe the mother and daughter to you. The mother needs little
description--a pale, black-haired, black-eyed woman, who should have
been blooming and sprightly, but that care had damped her spirits, and
cankered the roses in her cheeks.

But Jacquelina--Sans Souci--merits a better portrait. She was small
and slight for her years, and, though really near nine, would have