e only Board lady truly seeing through her, asked,
real sharplike, why Pinkie shouldn't go this time, Miss Bray spoke out
like she was really grieved.

"I declare, Mrs. Roane," she said--and she twirled her keys round and
round her fingers, and twitched the nostril parts of her nose just like
a horse--"I declare, Mrs. Roane, I hate to tell you, I really do. But
Pinkie Moore wouldn't do for adoption. She has a terrible temper, and
she's so slow nobody would keep her. And then, too"--her voice was the
Pharisee kind that the Lord must hate worse than all others--"and then,
too, I am sorry to say Pinkie is not truthful, and has been caught
taking things from the girls. I hope none of you will mention this, as I
trust by watching over her to correct these faults. She begs me so not
to send her out for adoption, and is so devoted to me that--" And just
then she saw me, which she hadn't done before, I being behind Mrs.
Armstead, and she stopped like she had been hit.

For a minute I didn't breathe. I didn't. All I did was to stare--stare
with mouth open and eyes out; and then it was the glasses went down and
I flew into the yard, and there by the pump was Pinkie.

"Oh, Pinkie!" I said. "Oh, Pinkie!" And I caught her round the waist and
raced up and down the yard like a wild man from Borneo. "Oh, Pinkie,
what do you think?" Poor Pinkie, thinking a mad dog had bit me, tried to
make me stop, but stop I wouldn't until there was no more breath. And
then we sat down on the woodpile, and I hugged her so hard I almost
broke her bones.

First I was so mad I couldn't cry, and then crying so I couldn't speak.
But after a while words came, and I said:

"Pinkie Moore, are you devoted to Miss Bray? Are you? I want the truest
truth. Are you devoted to her?"

"Devoted to Miss Bray? Devoted!" And poor little Pinkie, who has no more
spirit than a poor relation, spoke out for once. "I hate her!" she said.
"I hate her worse than prunes; and if somebody would only adopt me, I'd
be so thankful I'd choke for joy, except for leaving you." Then she
boohoo'd too, and the tears that fell between us looked like we were
artesian wells--they certainly did.

But Pinkie didn't know what caused my tears. Mine were mad tears, and
not being able to tell her why they came, I had to send her to the house
to wash her face. I washed mine at the pump, and then worked off some of
my mad by sweeping the yard as hard as I could, wishing all the time
Miss Bray w