f going to school, and I wish I never had to look
into a book again;" and down little Hatty jumped, two stairs at a time,
into the kitchen, to ask Bridget for an apple.

Bridget's red arms were up to the elbows in flour, making pies, and
Hatty said _she_ should like to help her. Bridget smiled at the idea of
"_helping_" her. But she liked Hatty; so she tied a great check apron
round her, tucked her curls behind her ears, and gave her a bit of
paste, and a little cup-plate on which to make herself a pie. So Hatty
rolled out the paste, keeping one eye all the while on Bridget, to see
how she did hers; and then she greased her little plate so that the pie
need not stick to it. When that was done, she filled up the inside with
stewed apple, then she tucked it all in with a nice "top crust," then
she worked it all round the edge with a tiny little key she had in her
pocket: then she looked up and said,

"Bridget! I wish I were _you_; I should have such a good time tasting
the apple-sauce, to see if it were sweet enough. I should like to go
out to service, Bridget, and never see that hateful school any more."

Bridget didn't answer, but she turned away and took a long-handled
shovel and poked her pies into the hot oven, and then Hatty heard her
draw a great long sigh.

"What is the matter, Bridget?" said Hatty. "Is your crust heavy?"

"No," said Bridget,--"but my _heart is_. I was thinking how I wished I
knew how to read and write. There's Patrick, my brother, way over in
Ireland--the last time I saw him I wasn't taller than that butter
firkin. Father and mother are dead, and Pat is just the pulse of my
heart, Hatty! Well, when he writes me a letter, it's me that can't for
the life of me read a word of it; and if I get Honora Donahue to read
it, I'm not sure whether she gets the right sense of it; and then a
body wants to read a letter more than once, you know; and so I take it
up, my darlin', and turn it over and over, and it's nothing but Greek
and Latin to poor Bridget. And so many's the time, Hatty, I've cried
hours over Pat's letters, for reason of that. Then I can't answer
them--cause you know I can't write--and in course I don't want to turn
my heart inside out for anybody else to write it to Pat for me; and so
you see, my darlin', it's a bother all round entirely,"--and Bridget
shut to the oven door, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her check
apron.

Hatty was a very warm-hearted little girl, and she couldn