"WHERE is Annie?" demanded old Mrs. Pickens.

"I'm sure I don't know. Not far away, for I heard her voice just now singing in the woods near the house."

"That child is always singing, always," went on Mrs. Pickens in a melancholy voice. "What she finds to sing about in this miserable place I cannot imagine. It's really unnatural!"

"Oh, no! mother,—not unnatural. Remember what a child she is. She hardly remembers the old life, or misses it. The sun shines, and she sings,—she can't help it. We ought to be glad instead of sorry that she doesn't feel the changes as we do."

"Well, I am glad," responded the old lady. "You needn't take me up so sharply, Susan. All I say is that it seems to me unreasonable."

Miss Pickens glanced about the room, and suppressed a sigh. It was, indeed, a miserable dwelling, scarcely better than a hut. Very few of you who read this have ever seen a place so comfortless or so poor. The roof let in rain. Through the cracked, uneven floor the ground could be distinctly seen. A broken window-pane was stopped by an old hat thrust into the hole. For furniture was only a rusty stove, a table, three chairs, a few battered utensils for cooking, and a bed laid on the floor of the inner room,—that was all. And the dwellers in this wretched home, for which they were indebted to the charity of friends scarcely richer than themselves, were ladies born and bred, accustomed to all the comforts and enjoyments of life.

It was the old story,—alas! too common in these times,—the story of a Southern family reduced to poverty by the ravages of war. Six years before, all had been different. Then the fighting was not begun, and the Southern Confederacy was a thing to boast over and make speeches about. The gray uniforms were smart and new then; the volunteers eager and full of zeal. All things went smoothly in the stately old house known to Charleston people as the "Pickens Mansion." The cotton was regularly harvested on the Sea Islands, and on the Beaufort plantation, which belonged to Annie; for little Annie, too, was an heiress, with acres and negroes of her own. War seemed an easy thing in those days, and a glorious one. There was no lack felt anywhere; only a set of fresh and exciting interests in lives which had always been interesting enough. Mrs. Pickens and the other Charleston ladies scraped lint and rolled bandages with busy fingers; but they smiled at each other as they did so, and said that these would never be needed, there would never be any real fighting! They stood on their balconies to cheer and applaud the incoming regiments,—regiments of gallant young men, their own sons and the sons of neighbors: and it was like the opening chapter of a story. Ah! the story had run through many chapters since then, and what different ones! The smart uniforms had lost all their gloss, blood was upon the flags, the glory had changed to ashes; every family wore mourning for somebody. The pleasant Charleston home, where Mrs. Pickens had stood on the balcony to watch the gray-coated troops pass by, and little Annie had fluttered her mite of a handkerchief, and laughed as the gay banners danced in air, where was it? Burned to the ground; only a sorry heap of ruin marked where once it stood. No more cotton bales came from the Sea Islands. First one army, then the other, had swept over the Beaufort plantation, trampling its fields into mire. It had been seized, confiscated, retaken, re-confiscated, sold to this person and that. Nobody knew exactly to whom it belonged nowadays; but it was not to little Annie, rightful heiress of all. Stripped of every thing, reduced to utter want, Mrs. Pickens and her daughter took refuge in a lonely village, far up among the Carolina hills, where some former friends, also ruined by the war, offered them the wretched home where now we find them. Little Annie, sole blossom left upon the blasted tree, went with them. It was a miserable life which they led. The pinch of poverty is never so keenly felt as when the recollection of better days mixes with it like a perpetual sting. All the bright hopes of six years before were over, and the poor ladies could have said, "Behold, was ever sorrow like unto my sorrow!" They grieved for themselves; they grieved most of all for their beautiful little Annie, but Annie did not grieve,—not she!

Never was a happier little maiden,—as blithe and merry in her coarse cotton frock and bare feet as though the cotton were choicest satin. She was as pretty too. No frock could spoil that charming little face framed in thick chestnut curls, or hide the graceful movements which would have made her remarkable anywhere. Her eyes, which were brown like her curls, danced continually. Her mouth was always smiling. The dimples came and went with every word she spoke. And, however shabby might be her dress, she was a little lady always. No one could mistake it, who listened to her sweet voice and prettily chosen words. The pitiful sadness of her Grandmother, the rigid melancholy of her Aunt, passed over her as a cloud drifts over a blue sky on a summer's day, leaving the blue undimmed. She loved them, and was sorry when they were sorry; but God had given her such a happy nature, that happy she must be in spite of all. Just to be alive was pleasant enough, but there were many other pleasant things beside. The woods were full of flowers, and Annie loved flowers dearly. Then there were the beautiful pine forests themselves, with their cool shades and fragrant smell. There was sunshine too, and now and then a story, when Aunty felt brighter than usual. The negroes in the neighborhood were all fond of little "Missy Annie." They would catch squirrels for her, or climb for birds' eggs; and old Sambo scarcely ever passed the hut without bringing some little gift of flowers or nuts. There was Beppo, also, a large and handsome hound belonging to a distant plantation, who came now and then to make Annie visits. It was a case of pure affection on his part, for she was not allowed to give him any thing to eat, not even a piece of corn bread, for food was too precious with the stricken family to be shared with dogs. But Beppo came all the same, and seemed to like to race and romp with Annie just as well as though the entertainment had wound up with something more substantial. Oh! there were many pleasant things to do, Annie thought.

When Aunty went out to call her that day, she was sitting under a tree with a lap full of yellow jessamines, which she was tying into a bunch. As she worked she sang.

"Who are those for, Annie?" asked Miss Pickens.

"I was going to give them to Mrs. Randolph, Aunty. She came yesterday to the camp, Juba says. I thought she'd like them."

Miss Pickens looked rigid, but she made no reply. "The Camp" was a depÔt of United States supplies, established for the relief of the poor blacks and whites of the region, and Major Randolph was the officer in charge of it. In her great poverty, Miss Pickens had been forced to apply with the rest of her neighbors for this aid, going every week with a basket on her arm, and receiving the same rations of bacon and corn-meal which the poorest negroes received. It was bitter bread; but what can one do when one is starving? Major Randolph was sorry for the poor lady, and kind and courteous always, but Miss Pickens could not be grateful; he was one of the Northern invaders who had helped to crush her hopes and that of her State, and to bring them to this extremity; and though she took the corn-meal, she had no thanks in her heart.

"We are going to the village this afternoon, aren't we, Aunty?" went on Annie.

"Yes, we must," replied her Aunt. "I came to tell you to get ready. And, Annie, don't sing so loud when you are near the house. Grandmamma doesn't like to hear it."

"Doesn't she?" said Annie wondering. "I'll try to remember, Aunty. But sometimes I don't know when I am singing. It just sings of itself."

"Getting ready" consisted of tying on two faded, flapping sun-bonnets, to which Miss Pickens added an old ragged India shawl, relic of past grandeur. Annie's feet were bare, her Aunt wore army shoes made of cow-skin, part of the Bureau supply. She was a tall, thin woman, and, with the habit of former days, carried her head high in air as she walked along. Little fairy Annie danced by her side, now stopping to gather a flower, now to listen to a bird, chatting and laughing all the way, as though she were a bird herself, and never heeding Aunty's melancholy looks or short answers.

"Who are those people?" asked Mrs. Randolph of her husband, as she watched the odd-looking pair come along the road. "Do look, Harry. Such a strange woman, and—I do declare, the prettiest child I ever saw in my life. Tell me who they are?"

"Oh, that's my little pet, Annie Pickens," replied the Major. Then he hastily told his wife the story.

"The poor ladies suffer dreadfully both in pride and in pocket, I fear," he added. "But Annie, bless her! she doesn't know what suffering means, any more than if she were a bird or a squirrel. I thought you'd take a fancy to her, Blanche; and perhaps you can think of some way to help them. Women know how to set about such things. I'm such a clumsy fellow that all I dared attempt was to deal out as much meal and bacon as the Aunt could carry."

Blanche Randolph found it easy to "take a fancy" to the sweet little creature who lifted to her such beaming eyes as she made her offering of the yellow jessamines. "Oh, dear!" she said to herself, "how I wish she belonged to me." She kissed and fondled her, and while Miss Pickens transacted her business, Annie sat on Mrs. Randolph's lap and talked to her, quite as though they were old acquaintances.

"What do you do all day, dear? Have you any one to play with?"

"Oh, yes, I have Beppo. That's Mr. Ashley's dog, you know. He runs over to see me almost every week, and we have such nice times."

"And don't you study any lessons?" asked Mrs. Randolph.

"No, not now. I used to, but Aunty is so busy now that she says she hasn't time to teach me. Beside, all my books were burned up."

"Come, Annie, it is time to go," said Miss Pickens, moving away, with a curt bow to Mrs. Randolph.

Annie lingered to kiss her new friend.

"I shall pick you some fresh flowers next time we come," she said.

"I'll tell you what, Harry," said Mrs. Randolph, "that is the most pathetically sweet little darling I ever saw."

"Pathetic? Why she's as happy as the day is long."

"Ah, you don't understand! That's the very reason. 'I feel to cry' over her, as old Mauma Sally would say."

Medville was a quiet, lonely place. All the people, black and white alike, were very poor. Nobody called to see Mrs. Randolph; there were no parties to go to; and after a while she learned to look forward to little Annie's visit as the pleasantest thing in the whole week. Annie looked forward to it also. Her new friend was both kind and gay. Always some little treat was prepared for her coming,—a book, a parcel of cakes, or a picture-paper with gay colored illustrations. Mrs. Randolph chose these gifts carefully, because she was afraid of offending Miss Pickens, but Miss Pickens was not offended; she loved Annie too dearly for that, and became almost gracious as she thanked Mrs. Randolph for her kindness. After some time Mrs. Randolph ventured to walk out to the cottage. What she saw there horrified her, but I can best tell what that was by quoting a letter which she wrote about that time to her sister, Mrs. Boyd, who was spending the summer in England:—

"Fancy, dear Mary, a miserable log hut not one bit better than those in which the negroes dwell. In fact, it used to be a negro hut, some say a pig-pen; but that is too bad, I cannot believe it. The roof lets in water, the floor is broken away, the windows are stuffed with rags and an old hat. Every thing is perfectly clean inside, swept and scrubbed continually by the poor ladies, and they are real ladies, Mary. It was pitiful to see old Mrs. Pickens sitting in her wooden chair in a dress which her former cook would have disdained, and yet with all the dignity and sad politeness of a duchess in difficulties. They make no secret of their extreme poverty; they cannot, in fact, for it stares you in the face; but they ask for nothing, and you would scarcely dare to offer aid. I was so shocked that I could not restrain my tears. Miss Pickens brought me a tin cupful of water, and I think my sympathy touched her, for she has thawed a little since, and has permitted Annie to accept a gingham frock which I made for her, and some stockings and shoes. Such dainty little feet as hers are, and such a lovely child! I have scarcely ever seen one so beautiful, and it is not common beauty, but of the rarest sort, with elegance and refinement in every feature and movement. It is a thousand pities that she should be left here to grow up in poverty without education, or any of the things she was born to, for, as I told you in my last, the family was once wealthy, and Annie herself would be a great heiress had not the war ruined them all."

When Mrs. Boyd received this letter, she was making a visit to some friends who lived in a villa on the banks of the Thames. Mr. and Mrs. Grant were the names of these friends. They were all sitting on the lawn when the post came in. The sunset cast a pink glow on the curves of the beautiful river; the roses were in perfect bloom; overhead and underfoot the grass and trees were of that rich and tender green which is peculiar to England. The letter interested Mrs. Boyd so much that she read it aloud to her friends, who were rich and kind-hearted people, with one little boy of their own.

Mrs. Grant almost cried over the letter. It was the saddest thing that she had ever heard of, and all that evening she and her husband could talk of nothing else. Little Annie, sound asleep in her Carolina cabin, did not dream that, three thousand miles away, two people, whom she had never heard of, were spending half the night in the discussion of her fate and fortunes! Long after their guest had gone to bed, the Grants sat up together conversing about Annie; and in the morning they came down with a proposal so astonishing, that Mrs. Boyd could hardly believe her ears when she heard it.

"We have been talking in a vague way for years past of adopting a little girl," said Mr. Grant. "We always wished for a daughter, and felt sure that to have a sister would be the best thing in the world for Rupert, who is an affectionate little fellow, and would enjoy such a playmate of all things. But you can easily guess that there have been difficulties in the way of these plans, especially as to finding the right child, so we have done nothing about it. Now it strikes my wife, and it strikes me also, that this story of your sister's is a clear leading of Providence. Here is a child who wants a home, and here are we who want a child. So we have made up our minds to send to America for Annie, and, if her relatives will consent, to adopt her as our own. Will you give me Mrs. Randolph's exact address?"

"But it is so sudden. Are you sure you won't repent?" asked Mrs. Boyd.

"I don't think we shall. And it seems less sudden to us than to you, because, as I have explained, this idea has been in our minds for a a long time."

You can fancy the excitement of Major and Mrs. Randolph when Mr. Grant's letter reached Medville. He offered to adopt Annie, and treat her in every respect as though she were his own daughter, provided her Grandmother and Aunt would give her up entirely, and promise never again to claim her as theirs.

"If they will consent to this," wrote Mr. Grant, "I will settle a hundred pounds a year on them for the rest of their lives. I will also employ a lawyer to see if any thing can be done towards getting back a part of the confiscated property. But all this is only on condition that the child is absolutely made over to me. I am not willing to take her with any loop-hole left open by which she may, by and by, be claimed back again just as we have learned to consider her our own. I beg that Major Randolph will have this point most clearly understood, and will attend to the drawing up of a legal paper which shall put it beyond the possibility of dispute."

The day after this letter came, Mrs. Randolph put it in her pocket and walked out to the mountain hut. She felt very nervous as she tapped at the door.

"It was a terrible thing to do," she wrote afterwards to her sister. "There were the two poor ladies as stately as ever, and little Annie so bright and winning. It was like asking for the only happy thing left in their lives. I explained first about my letter to you, and how you happened to be staying with the Grants when you received it, and then I gave Miss Pickens Mr. Grant's letter. Her face was like iron as she read it, and she swallowed hard several times, but she never uttered one word. When she had done, she thought for several minutes; then she said, in a choked voice, 'If you will leave this with us, Madam, you shall have an answer to-morrow.' I came away. Dear little Annie walked half way down the hill with me. I hope, oh, so much, that they will let her go. The life they lead is too sad for such a child, and in every way it is better for them all; but oh, dear! I am so sorry for them that I don't know what to do."

Next day Miss Pickens walked down alone to the Relief Station.

"My mother and I have talked it over," she said briefly, "and we have decided. Annie must go."

"I am glad," said Mrs. Randolph. "Glad for her, but very sorry for you."

"It is like cutting out my heart," said the poor Aunt. "But what can we do? I am not able to give the child proper food even, or decent clothes. If we keep her she must grow up in ignorance. These English strangers offer every thing; we have nothing to offer. If we could count on the bare necessaries of life,—no more than those,—I would never, never give up Annie. As it is, it would be sinning against her to refuse."

"Mr. Grant's assistance will do much to make your own lives more comfortable," suggested Mrs. Randolph.

"I don't care about that. We could go on suffering and not say a word, if only we might keep Annie. But she would suffer too, and more and more as she grows older. No, Annie must go."

"The Grants are thoroughly good people, and will be kindness itself, I am sure. The only danger is that they may spoil your dear little girl with over-indulgence."

"She can stand a good deal, having had none for so long a time," replied Miss Pickens with a sad smile. "But Annie is not that sort of child; nothing could spoil her. When must she go, Mrs. Randolph?"

"Mr. Grant spoke of the 'Cuba,' on which some friends of his are to sail. She leaves on the 24th."

"The 24th. That is week after next."

"If it seems to you too soon—"

"No. The sooner it is over the better for us all."

"I half feel as if I had done you a wrong," said Mrs. Randolph, with tears in her eyes.

"No, you have done us no wrong. It is in our own hands, you see. We could say no, even now. Oh, if I dared say it! But I dare not,—that is worst of all,—I dare not." She gave a dry sort of sob and walked away rapidly. Mrs. Randolph, left behind, broke down and indulged in a good fit of crying.

Dear little Annie! she was partly puzzled, partly pleased, partly pained by the news of what was going to befall her. She clung to her Aunty, and declared that she could not go. Then Mrs. Randolph talked with her and explained that Aunty would be better off, and Grandmamma have a more comfortable house to live in—making pictures of the sweet English home, the kind people, the dear little brother waiting for her on the other side of the sea, till Annie felt as if it would be pleasant to go. There was not much time for discussion; every thing was done in a hurry. Mrs. Randolph sewed all day long on her machine, making little underclothes and a pretty blue travelling dress. Miss Pickens patched up one of her faded silks, for she was to accompany Annie to New York and see her sail, Mr. Grant paying all the expenses of the journey for both of them. Grandmamma cried all night, but in the daytime her face looked set and hard. There were papers to sign and boxes to pack. Beppo seemed to smell in the air that something was about to happen. All day long he hung around the hut, whining and sniffing. Now and then he would throw back his head and give a long, sorrowful bay, which echoed from some distant point in the pine wood. The last day came,—the last kisses. It was like a rapid whirling dream, the journey, the steam cars, the arrival in New York, and Annie only seemed to wake up when she stood on the steamer's deck and felt the vessel throb and move away. On the wharf, among the throng of people who had come down to say good-by, stood Aunty's tall figure in her faded silk and ragged shawl, looking so different from any one else there. She did not wave her handkerchief or make any sign, but fixed her eyes on Annie as if she could never look away, and there was something in the expression of her face which made Annie suddenly burst into tears. She wiped them fast, but before she could see clearly, the wharf was far distant, and Aunty's face was only a white spot among other white spots, which were partly faces and partly fluttering handkerchiefs. A few minutes more and the spots grew dim, the wharf could no longer be seen, the vessel began to rock and plunge in the waves, and the great steamer was fairly at sea.

Do you suppose that Annie cried all the voyage? Bless you, no! It was not in her to be sorrowful long. In a very little while her tears dried, smiles came back, and the trustful brown eyes were as bright as ever. Everybody on board noticed the dear little girl and was kind. The Captain, who had little girls of his own at home, would walk with her on the deck for an hour at a time, telling her stories which he called "yarns," and which were very interesting. The old sailors would coax the little maiden amidships and tell her "yarns" also, about sharks and whales and albatrosses. One of them was such a nice old fellow. His name was "Jack," and he won Annie's affections completely, by catching a flying-fish in a bucket and making her a present of it. Did you ever see a flying-fish? Annie's did not seem at all happy in the bucket, so she threw him into the sea again, but none the less was she pleased that Jack gave him to her. She liked to watch the porpoises turn and wheel in the water, and the gulls skim and dive; but most of all she delighted in the Mother Carey's chickens, which on stormy days fluttered in and out, rocking on the waves, and never seeming afraid, however hard the wind might blow. Going to sea was to Annie as pleasant as all the other pleasant things in her life. She would have laughed hard enough had anybody asked whether unpleasant things had never happened to her, and would have said "No!" in a minute.

The voyage ended at Liverpool. Annie felt sorry and homesick at leaving the vessel, as travellers are apt to do. But pretty soon a gentleman came on board, and a pretty little boy. It was Mr. Grant and Rupert, come down to meet her, and they were so pleasant and so glad to see Annie that she forgot all her home-sickness at once.

"What a funny carriage," she exclaimed, when, after they had all landed, Mr. Grant helped her into a cab.

"It's a Hansom," explained Rupert. "Papa engaged one because I asked him. It's such fun to ride in 'em, I think. Don't they have any in America where you live?"

"No,—not any carriages at all where I live," replied Annie, nestling down among the cushions,—"only mule carts and—wheelbarrows—and—oh, yes—Major Randolph had an ambulance. There were beau-tiful carriages in New York though, but I didn't see any like this."

"Don't you like it?"

"Oh, yes,—very much," replied Annie, cuddling cosily between her new Papa and Brother.

"Isn't she pretty?" whispered Rupert to his father. "None of the other fellows at our school have got such a pretty sister as she is. And she's a jolly little thing, too," he added confidentially.

Mrs. Grant had grown a little anxious about the first meeting. "If we should be disappointed!" she thought. But when the carriage drove up and her husband lifted Annie out, a glance made her easy. "I can love that child," she said to herself, and her embrace was so warm that Annie rested in her arms with the feeling that here was real home and a real Mamma, and that England was just as nice as America.

You can guess how she enjoyed the lawn with its roses, and the beautiful river. Fresh from the poor little cabin on the hill-top, she nevertheless fell with the greatest ease into the ways and habits of her new life. It did not puzzle or disturb her in the least to live in large rooms, be waited on by servants, or have nice things about her; she took to all these naturally. For a few days Mr. and Mrs. Grant watched with some anxiety, fearing to discover a flaw in their treasure, but no flaw appeared. Not that Annie was faultless, but hers were honest little faults; there was nothing hidden or concealed in her character, and in a short time her new friends had learned to trust her and to love her entirely.

So here was our little girl fairly settled in England, with dainty dresses to wear, a governess coming every day to give her lessons, masters in French and music, a carriage to ride in, and half a dozen people at least ready to pet and make much of her all the time. Do you think she was happier than she had been before? How could she be? One cannot be more than happy. She was happy then, she was happy now,—no more, no less.

Rupert used to talk to her sometimes about that old life, which seemed to him so strange and dismal.

"How you must have hated it!" he said once. "I can't bear to have you tell me any more. What's corn-meal? It sounds very nasty! And didn't you have anybody to play with, not anybody at all, or any fun, ever?"

"Fun!" cried Annie; "I should think so! Why, Rupert, our woods were full of squirrels. Such dear little things!—you never saw such pretty squirrels. One of them got so tamed that he used to eat out of my hand. His name was Torpedo. I named him myself. Then there was Beppo, the dearest dog! I wish you knew him. We used to run races and have the greatest fun. And Aunty and I had nice times going down to the camp."

"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sighed Rupert. He could not see the fun at all.

When Annie had been three years with the Grants, Major and Mrs. Randolph came to London, and drove down to the villa to see her. It was a great pleasure to them all. Annie had a thousand questions to ask about Grandmamma and Aunty, who no longer lived in the hut, but in Medville, where Mr. Grant had hired a small house for them.

"They are quite comfortable now," said Mrs. Randolph. "Aunty has gained a little flesh, and Grandmamma is stronger, and able to walk out sometimes. Old Sambo came down the very night before we left with a box of birds' eggs, which he wished to send to 'Missy Annie.' They are in the carriage; you shall have them presently. And here is a long letter from Aunty."

"Annie, you look just the same," remarked the Major; "only you are grown, and the sunburn has worn off and left you as fair as a lily. You used to be brown as a bun when I knew you first. I needn't ask if you are happy here?"

"Oh! very, very happy," said Annie warmly.

"A great deal happier than you were when you lived with Grandmamma and Aunty?" inquired Mrs. Randolph.

"Why, no!" cried Annie wonderingly; "not any happier than that. I used to have lovely times then; but I have lovely times here too."

"That child will never lack for happiness," said the Major, as they drove back to London. "She's the brightest little being I ever saw."

"Yes," replied his wife; "rain or shine, it's all one with Annie. Her cheer comes from within, and is so warm and radiant that, whatever sky is overhead, she always rejoices. Let the clouds do what they may, it makes no difference: Annie will always sit in the sun,—the sunshine of her own sweet, happy little heart."