cheese, good sweet milk, curds, and cream?"

"Peasant fare," thought Laura; "such as our cowherds at home have. I will not eat;" and she drew disdainfully off; but the Motherkin took no notice of her disdain, and placed some food before her. She was too hungry long to refuse, but she almost choked over the coarse brown bread. It was good, however, and so was all the rest, and in spite of herself she ate abundantly.

The old lady smiled whimsically, and bade her, as soon as she had finished her meal, tie on a long apron and assist her in putting things in order. This was really unbearable.

"No, I will not do it," said Laura, firmly.

"Oh, my little damsel, do not be ungracious," said the Motherkin. "I shall have to ask your assistance in many things, for my good, faithful Grim has to be away; he has had to go in search of a wonderful herb which heals many ailments, and which is only found in a region far from here; and as it is to relieve poor sick people, I cannot refuse to allow him. His absence, however, obliges me to do his work, and I am sure you will not see an old friend of your mother making unnecessary exertions that a young pair of arms and legs can do so much better than old ones."

At this Laura opened her eyes in astonishment, and glancing down at her dress, murmured,

"I am not allowed at home to soil my clothes or my hands; they will get too coarse and rough, Nannette, my nurse, says."

"No matter for Nannette; you are too much of a lady not to assist me. Come, we will arrange about the clothes afterwards. I have some pretty little gingham gowns which will fit you, and we will lay aside these fine feathers."

Thus appealed to, though in a very novel manner, on the score of her ladyhood, Laura tied on the apron and obeyed the Motherkin with less reluctance. She was awkward, and made mistakes. She placed cups where plates should go, and turned things upside down and downside up. And when the old lady told her she had done enough, she sat down and cried for vexation, she had done so badly. Again came the whimsical little smile on the Motherkin's face, and, opening the door, she said,

"Come, Laura, and see my cow and my pig, and let me show you my garden."

Laura rose, but scorned the amusement, and soon found herself admiring both cow and pig, for both were white and clean as two roses; and when the Motherkin showed her a corner which was to be her own garden, to dig in as she pleased, she no longer felt contemptuously as she had done. But the novelty of having a garden and being allowed to dig in it did not make her less homesick and dreary when bedtime came, and she had to creep off alone to the clean but hard little bed. She slept, though, soundly and well.

CHAPTER III.

The rushing of the brook wakened Laura, and she gazed about her; slowly and dimly the sense of where she was came upon her, and she resolved that she would stay in bed. There was no nurse to dress her, no elegant toilet arrangements such as she was always in the habit of using: a little earthenware bowl and jug in the place of her luxurious bath, a good coarse towel instead of the snowy damask linen, and over the foot of the bed a common print dress and a checked apron, both spotlessly clean, had been placed. She looked at them and buried her face in her pillow. The Motherkin called her in vain. After waiting a long while, she came up to her.

"Why are you not out of bed, my child?" she asked, most kindly. "It is a bright, clear morning. Are you not well?"

Laura said nothing; ashamed of her own sulkiness, she yet was not prepared to acknowledge it.

"Come, shall I help you dress? Do you need assistance?"

Still no reply.

"Ah, what a pity you are ill!" said the Motherkin. "I had some nice chocolate ready for your breakfast, but I will have to go make some gruel. Poor child! poor child!" And away she went, leaving Laura with her head still buried in her pillow. In a short time she returned, bearing a large cup of gruel and a slice of bread, which she placed beside Laura. Then she bathed the child's face and brushed her hair, Laura submitting in silence. When she had rearranged the bed and made it comfortable, she kissed her and left her.

After a while Laura tasted the gruel, making faces over it; but she emptied the cup. In the same way the bread disappeared; and then, getting very tired of lying in bed, she rose and went to the window.

What a day it was! so sunny and bright! And how merrily ran the brook, and how she longed to see its drops sparkle between her fingers as they had done the day before! How velvety and soft was the grass, how yellow the buttercups! and she was sure she saw a humming-bird dipping down into the flowers in the Motherkin's garden.

"IT WAS ONE OF THE MOTHERKIN'S PIGS."

A new idea came to her. Why not dress and get out of the window, underneath which was a shed, and so drop down into the garden? The clothes were slipped on hurriedly; her little fingers were so eager that the buttons went in and out of their holes again. Then softly on tiptoe she scrambled out. Her skirts caught, her fingers were scratched, the skin was peeled from a spot on one little knee; but, ah! how delicious this liberty! Her feet no sooner touched the earth than she ran swiftly to the brook, and the shoes and stockings were left to themselves while she waded in the clear, cool water. It was such an unknown delight, such happiness, that Laura forgot she was Laura and might have been any little wood-bird. Out of the brook and on to the grass, off the grass and into the woods. Flowers were here, and she gathered her hands and apron full; berries, too—sweet, red, wild strawberries, with a perfume so rare, so aromatic. She stained her fingers and stained her lips. Hark! what was that? A rabbit, and down went flowers and berries for a hunt over the stones and briers. Heeding nothing, she went after Bunny, who suddenly popped into his burrow with a whisk of his little tail and a kick of his little legs for good-bye. Then a loud chattering made her aware of Mr. Squirrel's presence, and she watched him jumping from bough to bough. Wondering if he would come to her if she kept very still, she sat so motionless that by-and-by her little head began to nod, and, wearied with her unusual exercise, she fell fast asleep leaning against a tree.

When she awoke she was still in the same posture; but her knee smarted, her legs were stiff, and she was very hungry. Besides, she knew not which way to turn. She was lost—or thought herself so, which was nearly as bad.

After all, it would be nice to see the Motherkin's kind face and hear her pleasant voice. But how should she explain her naughtiness, her make-believe sickness; and how, above all, should she find her way back? A few tears of repentance and real sorrow rained down awhile, and then Laura, who was no coward, made up her mind that she would tell the Motherkin the truth, and that she was sorry and would try to do better.

A rustling in the bushes startled her, but she hoped it might be Grim. It was not, however; but it was one of the Motherkin's pigs; and, knowing that Monsieur