ent to her own room. Presently Garda, who had heard her step,
called; Margaret opened the door of communication between their two
chambers and looked in. The girl was swinging in her hammock.

"Going out?" she said, as she saw Margaret's garden-hat.

"Yes."

"To the garden?"

"Farther; out on the barren."

"I know where,--to take the medicine to that sick child. Why don't you
send somebody?"

"I like to go."

"No, you don't," said Garda, laughing. "You're as good as gold,
Margaret, but you don't really like to go, you don't really like the
negroes, personally, one bit. You would do anything in the world for
them, give them all your money and all your time, teach school for them,
make clothes for them, and I don't know what all; but you would never
understand them though you should live among them all the rest of your
life, and never see a white face again. Now _I_ wouldn't take one grain
of the trouble for them that you would, because I don't think it's in
the least necessary. But, personally, I _like_ them, I like to have them
about, talk to them and hear them talk; I am really attached to all the
old servants about here. And I venture to say, too, that they would all
prefer me forever, though I didn't lift a finger for them, prefer me to
you, no matter what sacrifices you might make to help them, because they
would see and feel that _I_ really liked them, whereas _you_ didn't. But
I really think you like to be busy just for the sake of it; when there's
nothing else you can do, you go tramping all over the country until I
should think your feet would spread out like a duck's. I should like to
know when you have given yourself an hour or two of absolute rest--such
as I am taking now?"

"I can't sleep in the daytime," was Margaret's answer to this general
southern remonstrance; "and a duck's feet are very useful to the duck."

"Oh, of course I know your feet are lovely. But I shouldn't think they
could stay so, long."

"There seems to be no end at least to _your_ powers of 'staying so,'
especially when you get into a hammock," remarked Margaret. But she
spoke with a smile on her lips, she was well satisfied to see the girl
swinging there contentedly, her eyes already misty with sleep.

"Good-by," she said, closing the door. Then she put on her hat and
gloves, and started on her mission. The sick child, for whom Dr. Kirby
had prepared the medicine, lived in a cabin two miles and a half from
East Angels, on t