It
was such a tiny mirror that she could see only a part of her face at a
time. When her big brown eyes, wistful and questioning as a fawn's, were
reflected in it, there was no room for the sensitive little mouth. Or if
she stood on tiptoe so that she could see her plump round chin, dimpled
cheeks, and white teeth, the eyes were left out, and she could see no
more of her inquisitive little nose than lay below the big freckle in
the middle of it.

Hastily tying back her curls with a bow of brown ribbon, she slipped on
her apron, and ran down-stairs, buttoning it as she went. She was free
now to do as she pleased until supper-time. Once out of the house, she
walked slowly along through the shady orchard, swinging her sunbonnet by
the strings. After the orchard came the long leafy lane, with its double
rows of cherry-trees, and then the gate at the end, leading into the
public highway.

As she slipped her hand around the post to unfasten the chain that held
the gate, little bare feet came pattering behind her, and a shrill voice
called: "Wait, Betty, wait a minute!" It was Davy Appleton. Betty's
little lamb, they called him, and Betty's shadow, and Betty's
sticking-plaster, because everywhere she went there was Davy just at her
heels.

All the Appleton children were boys,--three younger and two older than
Davy, whose last birthday cake should have had eight candles if there
had been any celebration of the event. But there never had been a
birthday cake with candles on it on the Appleton table. It would have
been considered a foolish waste of time and money, and birthdays came
and went sometimes, without the children knowing that they had passed.

Davy was a queer little fellow. He tagged along after Betty, switching
at the grass with a whip he carried, never saying a word after that
first eager call for her to wait. The two never tired of each other. He
was content to follow and ask no questions, for he had learned long ago
to look twice before he spoke once. As he caught up with her at the
gate, he did not even ask where she was going, knowing that he would
find out in due time if he only followed far enough.

He did not have to follow far to-day. Betty led the way across the road
to a plain little wooden church, set back in a grove of cedar-trees.
Behind the church was a graveyard, where they often strolled on summer
afternoons, through the tangle of grass and weeds and myrtle vines, to
read the names on the tombs