Adelaide was a very early riser—and lasted until bed-time; and, sometimes, longer, as Lucindy could have told you. Old Jonas had a way of covering his bald head with a flannel night-cap, and tucking the bed-covering about his face and ears, so that light and sound, no matter where they came from, would have as much as they could do to reach his eyes and ears; and, while he lay very still, as though he were sound asleep, he was sometimes awake for a very long time, thinking old thoughts and new ones, remembering people he had pinched in money matters, and thinking of those he intended to pinch.

After Adelaide came to live with him he had few thoughts of this kind, and less desire to sleep. Frequently he lay awake for hours at a time, wondering if the child was comfortable. Adelaide slept in a poster bed, one of the old-fashioned kind, and many a night, when everything was still and dark as the gloomy plague that fell over Egypt, old Jonas would slip from under his carefully tucked cover, steal into the room where the child slept, and listen by her bedside to convince himself that she was really breathing, so softly and shyly did she draw her breath. And sometimes he would put out his hand and feel—oh, ever so gently!—if she had kicked off the covering.

"Old Jonas would listen by her bedside to convince himself that she was really breathing"

Now, it frequently happened that Lucindy, the cook, had the same spells of uneasiness, and it chanced one night that they were both at the child's bed at the same time. Old Jonas was feeling, and Lucindy was feeling, and their hands met; the cold hand of old Jonas touched Lucindy's hand. This was enough! Lucindy said not a word—indeed, words were beyond her—she said afterward that she came within one of uttering a scream and dropping to the floor. But the fright that had weakened her, had also given her strength to escape. She stole back to her place on tip-toe, declaring in her mind that she would never again enter that room at night unless she had torch-bearers to escort her.

It was contrary to all her knowledge and experience that old Jonas should concern himself about the child at his time of life, and with his whimsical habits and methods. In trying to account for the incident, her mind never wandered in the direction of old Jonas at all. To imagine that he was at the bedside of the child, investigating her comfort, was far less plausible than any other explanation she could offer. And then and there, the legend of Cally-Lou became charged with reality, so far as Lucindy was concerned; and it had a larger growth in one night, from the impetus that Lucindy gave it, than an ordinary legend could hope to have in a century.

Lucindy lost no time in mentioning the matter to Adelaide the next day. "La, honey! I had de idee dat you wuz des a-playin' when I hear you talkin' to Cally-Lou; I got de idee dat she wuz des one er de Whittle-Come-Whattles dat lives in folks' min', an' nowhar else. Dat 'uz kaze I ain't never seed 'er; my eyeballs ain't got de right slant, I reckon. But las' night, I tuck a notion dat you had done kick de kivver off, an' in I went, gropin' an' creepin' 'roun' in de dark—not dish yer common dark what you have out'n doors, but de kin' dat your Nunky-Punky keeps in de house at night; an' de Lord knows ef I had ez much money ez what dey say he's got, I'd have me ten candles an' a lantern lit in eve'y blessed room. Well, I went in dar, des like I tell you, an' I put out my han'—des so—an' I teched somebody else's han', an' 'twant your'n, honey, kaze 'twuz ez col' ez a frog in de branch. I tell you now, I lit out fum dar—hosses couldn't 'a' helt me—an' I come in de back room dar whar I b'long'ded at, crope back in bed, an' shuck an' shiver'd plum' tell sleep come down de chimberly an' sot on my eyeleds.

"Nobody nee'n'ter tell me dey aint no Cally-Lou, kaze I done gone an' felt un her. Folks say dat feelin's lots better'n seein'. What you see mayn't be dar, kaze yer eyeballs may be wrong, but what you feels un, it's blidze ter be dar. Well, I done put my han' on Cally-Lou! Yes, honey, right on 'er!" Lucindy told her experience to many, including old Jonas, who glared at her with his ferret-like eyes, and moved his jaws as if he were chewing a very toothsome tidbit; and the oftener she told it, the larger it grew and the more completely she believed in Cally-Lou.

Many shook their heads, while others openly avowed their disbelief. On the other hand a large number of those who came in contact with Lucindy and heard her solemn account of the affair, were greatly impressed. Adelaide showed not the slightest surprise when Lucindy recounted her astonishing adventure. She seemed to be glad that the cook had now discovered for herself about Cally-Lou, but she seemed very much distressed, and also irritated, that the Chill-Child-No-Child (as she sometimes called her) should be so thoughtless as to wander about in the darkness with nothing on her feet and little on her body. With both hands Adelaide pushed back her wonderful hair that was almost hiding her blue eyes.

"I don't know how often I have told Cally-Lou not to go gadding about the house at night, catching cold and making Nunky-Punky pay a dollar apiece for doctor's bills. No wonder she slept so late this morning!"

Adelaide not only talked like she was picking the words out of a big book, as Lucindy declared, but there were times, as now, when all the troubles and responsibilities of maternity looked out upon the world through her eyes. Old-fashioned, and apparently as much in earnest as a woman grown, it was no wonder that Lucindy gazed at her like one entranced!

Adelaide made no further remark, but turned and went from the kitchen into the house. All the doors were open, the weather being warm and pleasant, and Lucindy presently heard her asking Cally-Lou why she continued to disobey the only friend she had in the world. Cally-Lou must have made some excuse, or explanation, though Lucindy couldn't hear a word thereof, for Adelaide, speaking in a louder tone, gave the Chill-Child-No-Child a sound rebuke.

"I don't care if you do feel that way about it," said she; "Nunky-Punky can look after me, if he feels like it, and so can Aunt Lucindy, but I'm the one to look after you. Be ashamed of yourself! a great big girl like you going around in the dark, barefooted and bareheaded. Seat yourself in that chair, and don't move out of it till I tell you, or you'll be sorry."

Lucindy, listening with all her ears, lifted her arms in a gesture of admiration and astonishment, exclaiming to herself, "I des wish you'd listen! Dat sho do beat my time!"

Adelaide went off to play, and it might be supposed that she had forgotten Cally-Lou; but a little before the hour was up, she went into the house again, called Cally-Lou, and, after a little, came running out again, laughing as gayly as if she had heard one of Mr. Sanders's jokes.

"What de matter, honey? Whar Cally-Lou?" Lucindy inquired.

"Why, she went fast asleep in the chair," cried Adelaide, laughing as though it were the funniest thing imaginable, "and no wonder she fell asleep after wandering about the house, pretending she wanted to make sure that I was snivelling under that heavy cover. How can anybody get cold such weather as this?"

Lucindy shook her head. "De han' dat totch mine was col', honey—stone col'."

"Oh, Cally-Lou's hand! Well, she can sit by the fire and still be cold," responded Adelaide. "Cally-Lou is mighty funny," she went on, growing confidential; "she says she is lonesome; she wants to play with growner folks than me."

"Well, honey, I dunner whar she'll fin' um. Dar's Mr. Sanders; sholy he ain't too young fer 'er!"

As though the mention of his name had summoned Mr. Sanders from the dim and vague region