tch, pointing to the half-eaten cake
in his hand, "boy, give me that. I am hungry." She spoke like one
accustomed to instant obedience, taking the cake without a word of
thanks and eating it prettily, her large blue eyes never leaving
Samuel's wondering face. When nothing remained, she again held out her
hand, with her pretty, imperious gesture. "More," said the little
lady, and Samuel gave her his last cooky, wishing heartily that he had
brought his mother's blue crockery jar along for the little lady's
pleasure.

"I'm sorry," he said humbly, "but I ate the others before I knew you
were coming. They are good, aren't they? Does your mother ever bake
sugar cakes?" he ended in a desperate attempt to make conversation.

She shook her blond head. "My mother is dead," she told him. "She was
drowned and I would have been drowned, too, but a brave sailor held me
tight until he found a spar and he tied me to it and we floated and
floated and floated until a big ship passed us and brought us here."
She spoke between bites, very calmly, as though her tale, as thrilling
as any of Samuel's dream adventures, was no uncommon story for a
dainty little maid to tell on a spring morning.

"Now I know who you are," Samuel exclaimed, forgetting his shyness in
his delighted surprise. "Your name is Katrina and you live with the
governor and your mother was lost at sea."

Katrina, having finished her cooky, pensively picked up the few crumbs
from her lap as though she were still hungry. "I live with Uncle
Peter," she corrected. "He is very good to me and gives me pretty
presents;--he gave me these on my birthday," and she touched the gold
medallions upon her ears complacently. "Only he never lets me go out
and play alone like the other little girls who sometimes visit me say
they do, and I get tired of staying in the garden. And when I go out
walking with old black Daniel behind me, it is just as hard as staying
at home. I want little girls and boys to play with and take me
places;--I get tired of my dolls," she ended wistfully.

Samuel nodded with understanding sympathy. To have this little
stranger maid listen to his stories or follow him on his lonely
rambles! If he might even go to play with her sometimes in the garden
behind Peter Stuyvesant's house. He frowned at the thought: it was not
hard to picture the old governor falling into one of his rages at the
insolence of the Jewish boy who dared to walk down the garden path.
And yet