have made your poor mother mighty
unhappy if she could have foreseen all this."

Elizabeth sat with the tears dropping down on her little white hands,
as her aunt proceeded to work on her sympathies in every way she could
think of.

Presently Lloyd came out all fresh and rosy from her long nap, and went
to play in the shade of the great beech-trees that guarded the cottage.

"I never saw a child with such influence over animals," said her mother,
as Lloyd came around the house with the parrot perched on the broom she
was carrying. "She'll walk right up to any strange dog and make friends
with it, no matter how savage-looking it is. And there's Polly, so old
and cross that she screams and scolds dreadfully if any of us go near
her. But Lloyd dresses her up in doll's clothes, puts paper bonnets on
her, and makes her just as uncomfortable as she pleases. Look! that is
one of her favourite amusements."

The Little Colonel squeezed the parrot into a tiny doll carriage, and
began to trundle it back and forth as fast as she could run.

"Ha! ha!" screamed the bird. "Polly is a lady! Oh, Lordy! I'm so happy!"

"She caught that from the washerwoman," laughed Mrs. Sherman. "I should
think the poor thing would be dizzy from whirling around so fast."

"Quit that, chillun; stop yo' fussin'," screamed Polly, as Lloyd grabbed
her up and began to pin a shawl around her neck. She clucked angrily,
but never once attempted to snap at the dimpled fingers that squeezed
her tight. Suddenly, as if her patience was completely exhausted, she
uttered a disdainful "Oh, pshaw!" and flew up into an old cedar-tree.

"Mothah! Polly won't play with me any moah," shrieked the child, flying
into a rage. She stamped and scowled and grew red in the face. Then she
began beating the trunk of the tree with the old broom she had been
carrying.

"Did you ever see anything so much like the old Colonel?" said Mrs.
Tyler, in astonishment. "I wonder if she acted that way this morning."

"I don't doubt it at all," answered Mrs. Sherman. "She'll be over it in
just a moment. These little spells never last long."

Mrs. Sherman was right. In a few moments Lloyd came up the walk,
singing.

"I wish you'd tell me a pink story," she said, coaxingly, as she leaned
against her mother's knee.

"Not now, dear; don't you see that I am busy talking to Aunt Sally? Run
and ask Mom Beck for one."

"What on earth does she mean by a pink story?" asked Mrs. Tyler.

"O