t Amanthis in this chair, where you can look at her, an' you
won't get lonesome while I'm playing outdoors."

He drew her toward him and kissed her.

"Why, how cold your hands are!" he exclaimed. "Staying in this warm room
all the time makes me forget it is so wintry outdoors. I don't believe
you are dressed warmly enough. You ought not to wear sunbonnets this
time of year."

Then for the first time he noticed her outgrown cloak and shabby shoes.

"What are you wearing these old clothes for?" he said, impatiently. "Why
didn't they dress you up when you were going visiting? It isn't showing
proper respect to send you off in the oldest things you've got."

It was a sore point with the Little Colonel. It hurt her pride enough to
have to wear old clothes without being scolded for it. Besides, she
felt that in some way her mother was being blamed for what could not be
helped.

"They's the best I've got," she answered, proudly choking back the
tears. "I don't need any new ones, 'cause maybe we'll be goin' away
pretty soon."

"Going away!" he echoed, blankly, "Where?" She did not answer until he
repeated the question. Then she turned her back on him, and started
toward the door. The tears she was too proud to let him see were running
down her face.

"We's goin' to the poah-house," she exclaimed, defiantly, "jus' as soon
as the money in the pocketbook is used up. It was nearly gone when I
came away."

Here she began to sob, as she fumbled at the door she could not see to
open.

"I'm goin' home to my mothah right now. She loves me if my clothes are
old and ugly."

"Why, Lloyd," called the Colonel, amazed and distressed by her sudden
burst of grief. "Come here to grandpa. Why didn't you tell me so
before?"

The face, the tone, the outstretched arm, all drew her irresistibly
to him. It was a relief to lay her head on his shoulder, and unburden
herself of the fear that had haunted her so many days.

With her arms around his neck, and the precious little head held close
to his heart, the old Colonel was in such a softened mood that he would
have promised anything to comfort her.

"There, there," he said, soothingly, stroking her hair with a gentle
hand, when she had told him all her troubles. "Don't you worry about
that, my dear. Nobody is going to eat out of tin pans and sleep on
straw. Grandpa just won't let them."

She sat up and wiped her eyes on her apron. "But Papa Jack would die
befo' he'd take help from