time, Adelaide had hardly been aroused from her dreams. She may have opened her eyes sometimes, but she seemed sleepy; and when she snored, as the majority of people will, when they are not put to bed right, everybody said she was crying. It was so ridiculous that she sometimes smiled in her sleep. But the most mysterious thing about it, was that old Jonas's sister knew she was named Adelaide almost as soon as she found her. Now, how did old Jonas's sister know that? Adelaide and I have often tried to figure it out when we were playing in the garden, but no matter how many figures we made in the sand, there was always something or other in the top row that stood for No-Time, and we didn't know how to add that up.

One day, Adelaide's father, who had been ailing a long time, became so ill that a great many people came to the house in carriages and took him away so that he might get well again. Adelaide hardly had time to forget that her father had gone away, before her mother went to bed one night, and, after staying there a long time, was carried away by the people who had been so kind to her, only this time there were a great many more women in the house, and some of them went about acting as though they had been taking snuff. And there was a very nice old gentleman, with a smooth face, and a big ring on one of his fat fingers. As well as Adelaide could remember, this was the Peskerwhalian Bishop, and he was just as kind as he could be. He had a pink complexion just like a woman. He took Adelaide in his arms, and told her all about Heaven, and everything like that, and then he felt about in his pockets and found some candy drops.

Adelaide knew very well that the people who came to the house were very much concerned about her. They talked in whispers when she was in hearing, but she knew by their sad faces that they were troubled about something, and she wished that they would get over it, and laugh and talk as they used to do. When she went on the street, the little girls she met turned and looked at her curiously, and though they were very friendly indeed, they had the inquisitive look that older people have such a dread of. At first she thought her nose must be smutty, or her bonnet on crooked, or her frock torn; but when it turned out that everything about her was according to the prevailing fashions of cleanliness and correctness, she was quite content to be the observed of all observers in her neighbourhood.

And then, one day (can it ever be forgotten by anybody who was living at that time?), a lovely man, looking so much like the Bishop that Adelaide named him so, came after her and said that she was to go to Shady Dale, and live with her Uncle Jonas. This was Mr. Sanders—Billy Sanders, of Shady Dale. "I ain't sorry for you one bit," Mr. Sanders declared—I was there when he said it—"bekaze the first time I saw you, you made a face at me."

"How did I look, and what else did I say?" Adelaide asked.

"You looked this way," replied Mr. Sanders, puckering up his countenance, "an' you said 'W-a-a-a!'"

"Then what did you say?" inquired Adelaide.

"Why, I shuck my fist at you an' said I never saw anybody look so much like your Uncle Jonas." Adelaide took all this very seriously, as she did most things.

It turned out that she was to go to her Uncle Jonas, and that Mr. Sanders had come after her; and then, my goodness gracious! she was so full of anticipation and joy that she was frightened for herself. The kind ladies who had had charge of her told her not to be frightened, and to be very good, but she just rolled her big blue eyes, and had long, long thoughts about things of which she never breathed a word. She started at last, and went with Mr. Sanders on the choo-choo train, and such a time as the two had buying tickets to Malvern, and laughing at the people they saw, and getting their baggage checked, and getting on the train, and watching the station slide back away from them so they could get a good start—such a time has hardly been repeated for anybody from that day to this.

A man caught a cinder in his eye, and ran with such speed to the water-cooler that he turned the whole thing over; and it came down with such a crash that everybody was frightened except Mr. Sanders and Adelaide. Women screamed, babies squalled, and all the time the cinder man was saying things under his breath, and some of them sounded to Adelaide like the words that her good friend, the Peskerwhalian Bishop, used in his sermon, only they were not so fierce and emphatic. The child glanced around, and remarked with a satisfied smile: "It didn't scare Cally-Lou." "I reckon not," Mr. Sanders remarked, although he had no idea what Adelaide meant.

Well, they reached Malvern in due time, and there, right at the station, was the stage-coach, which was driven by John Bell. Mr. Sanders introduced Adelaide to the driver, who took off his hat and bowed very gravely, and after that it was only a few minutes before they were on their way to Shady Dale. If the choo-choo train had been fine, the stage-coach was finer; it was like getting in a swing and staying there a long time. There were a few passengers in the coach, and they all appeared to be very sleepy. When they nodded, as the most of them did, they fell about somewhat promiscuously—though Adelaide didn't think of that word—and made it somewhat uncomfortable for the child, who was wide awake and alert. But when they came to the place where the horses were watered, John Bell leaned from his seat, and saw at a glance what Adelaide's trouble was. In a jiffy he had her up on the swaying seat beside him. It would have been a frightful position for most children, but Adelaide thought it was the grandest thing in the world. She was seated almost directly above the two wheel horses, and not very far from the leaders. She could see their muscles rise and fall as they whirled the coach along; she could see the flecks of foam made by the harness, and—well, it was just glorious! She had what Mr. Sanders called the Christmas feeling—the feeling that is ever ready to become awe or delight—and the swing of the stage-coach kept her alternating between the two.

It was wonderful, too, how one man could manage four great big horses, how he could guide them by merely touching one of the reins with the end of a finger; and then, when John Bell gave his long whip wide play, sending it through the air with a swish, and bringing it down as gently as a breath of wind on the back of the horse he desired to warn, Adelaide could have screamed with delight. There was a half-way house where the horses were changed, and when the coach stopped for that purpose, most of the passengers went into a near-by inn for their dinner. One or two of them, however, had brought a lunch along. One of them offered Adelaide a share, saying: "Won't you have some of my dinner, Sissy?" Her mother had called her many fond names, but nothing like that. John Bell glanced at her, and the expression on the little face opened his eyes. "No, I thank you," he replied, "she'll go snucks wi' me." She snuggled up to John Bell—"Did you hear him?" she asked; "he called me Sissy." "I heard him," said John Bell; "I heard every word, and just how he said it."

The lunch-basket that John Bell found under the seat was a wonder to see. It seemed to Adelaide that it held a whole bushel of fried chicken and biscuits with yellow butter on the inside of each. "Now," said John Bell, "there ain't enough vittles here for one, much less six." "Six!" cried Adelaide. "Yes'm; you and yourself, Mr. Sanders and his self, and me and myself." "Ef you're countin' me in," remarked Mr. Sanders, "jest add three more figgers to the multiplication table." "And then," said Adelaide very solemnly, "there's Cally-Lou and herself. Cally-Lou's herself is just big enough to be counted," she went on, "but Cally-Lou is bigger than I am. She's sitting right here by me; you could see her if you could turn your head quick enough. She dodges when she thinks anybody is going to look at her, because she is neither black