n strong and healthy, they never went much over seventy. She was the
youngest, and all the rest were gone. Her few real nieces and nephews
were scattered about; she had made up her mind long ago she shouldn't
ever have anyone hanging on her.

No one wanted to. No one even leaned on her. Yet somehow the life had
never seemed real solitary until now. She had comforted her years with
the thought that children were a great deal of trouble and did not
always turn out well. She could see the picture the little foreign girl
made as she folded her arms on Foster Leverett's knee. She wouldn't have
that mop of frowzly hair flying about, and she would like to fat her up
a little--she was rather peaked. She had imagined her going about in
this old place, sewing, learning to work properly, reading and studying,
and going to church every Sabbath. She had really meant to do something
for a human being day after day, not in a spasmodic fashion. And this
was the end of it.

She sprang up suddenly, lighted the candle again, went out to the
kitchen to see that everything was right and there was no danger of
fire. She opened the outside door and glanced around. There was an
autumnal chill in the air, but there were no mysterious shadows creeping
about in the yard below that might presage burglars. Then she bolted the
door with a snap, and stood a moment in the middle of the floor.

"You are an old fool, Priscilla Perkins! The idea of all Boston being
turned upside down for the sake of one little girl! People have come
over from England before, big and little, and there's been a war and
there may be another, and no end of things to happen. To be sure, I'd
done my duty by her if I'd had her; and if the others spoil her--I aint
to blame, the Lord knows!"

CHAPTER IV

OUT TO TEA

"There! Does it look like Old Boston?"

They were winding around Copp's Hill. Warren had been given part of a
day off, and the use of the chaise and Jack, to show the little cousin
something of Boston before they went to Uncle Winthrop's to tea.

Doris had her new coat, which was a sort of fawn color, and the close
Puritan cap to keep her neck and ears warm. For earache was quite a
common complaint among children, and people were careful through the
long cold winter. A strip of beaver fur edged the front, and went around
the little cape at the back. Its soft grayish-brown framed in her fair
face like a picture, and her eyes were almost the tint of the