lue eyes.

CHAPTER III.

IN A NEW WORLD.

A very homesick little girl was Primrose Henry when she went out to her
uncle's farm. The nurse went with her, but Lois Henry preferred that she
should not stay. The child was old enough to wait upon herself. She had
a longing for it to fill the vacant place of her own little girls, but
she knew that was carnal and sinful, and strove against it. Since God
had deprived her of them it was not right to put aught else in their
place. So it was a continual struggle between love and duty, and she was
cold to the little stranger.

The name, too, was a stumbling block. They had to accept it, however,
and called her Primrose with the soberest accent. Uncle James felt sore
about being worsted in his suit, for he had desired supreme control of
the child.

She soon found things to love. There was the big house dog Rover. Tiger,
the watch dog, was kept chained in the daytime and let loose at night to
ward off marauders. But he soon came to know her voice and wagged his
tail joyously at her approach. She was quite afraid of the cows, but a
pretty-faced one with no horns became a favorite, and she used to carry
it tid-bits to eat. The cats, too, would come at her call, though they
were not allowed in the house.

And there was Andrew. She was very shy of him at first, but he coaxed
her to look at a bird's nest with its small, blue-speckled eggs. And
there were the chickens that, as they grew larger, followed her about.
Andrew found the first ripe early pear for her, and the delicious, sweet
July apple; he took her when he went fishing on the creek, but she
always felt sorry for the poor fish so cruelly caught, it seemed to her.
He taught her to ride bareback behind him, and some boyish tricks that
amused her wonderfully.

Aunt Lois trained her in spelling, in sums in addition, sewing
patchwork, and spinning on the small wheel. But there was not enough in
the simple living to keep a child busy half the time, and she soon found
ways of roaming about, generally guarded by Rover. Aunt Wetherill had
said, "In six months you are coming back to us," so at first she was
very glad she was not to stay always.

It is the province of happy and wholesome childhood to forget the things
that are behind, or even a future in which there is dread. The life of
childhood is in the present, and it finds many pleasures. So now
Primrose had almost forgotten her joyous and sorrowful past, and really