You may be sure there was not much trouble in gaining the consent of Lucy’s father to the plan proposed for her welfare. He was only too glad and thankful to feel that his motherless little daughter would be placed where she would have a kind and prudent eye to oversee and guide her; and where she would have the opportunity of growing up into a useful and steady woman. This he knew she could not do in the unsettled life she now led on board ship with him, and he had long been considering what he should do with her.

Lucy, though thankful, was not as much pleased, and shed some bitter tears over the prospect. The poor child wanted to learn, and was glad to have a settled home; but she dreaded the thought of parting from her father, who would only be able to see her at such times as his vessel should be at the port of Savannah, and who was the only person whom she had to love her. But, in a day or two after, when she had seen Mrs. Gordon, and heard her talk so kindly of all the pleasures and comforts she would find in this promised home, she became more reconciled to it, especially as the autumn still seemed a long way off to her, and she had all the summer to go back and forth with her father on the sea.

So she told her troubles to her doll; and the steady, blue eyes, which never winked or softened, brought comfort to her, and seemed to give her the assurance that she need not be parted from her, even to go to her new home. If she had not had this beloved companion, it would have gone much harder with poor little Lucy.

Our little girls did not see her again; but last autumn, when they were settled once more in their city home, after all their summer wanderings, Mrs. Gordon wrote to them, saying that Lucy was quite contented and happy under her care; and that she was a very good child, being trustworthy and obedient, and showing a great desire to learn.

So there we will leave her, hoping that she will, as Maggie says, “prophet by all that is done for her and make a useful and happy woman.” The doll went with her; and all the other toys and amusements which were provided for her never made her tired or forgetful of this, her first love, or of the dear little girls who had taken so much interest in her.

Our party did not remain long in Savannah, for the weather was becoming warm and oppressive; but before they went away, they all spent a day on Mr. Powers’ plantation.

This was several miles from the city; and starting in the morning, soon after breakfast, they drove out in the cool of the day. Their way lay through dense pine woods; tall, stately pines, with long, straight trunks; shooting upwards, without leaf or branch, for many a foot, till they neared their height, when they put forth their dark-green crowns, which cast such a sombre shade below. The shade was no objection on this warm day, and a light breeze was stirring, which was very refreshing; but it sounded rather mournful to Maggie and Bessie, as it moaned through the mighty stems, and rustled the thick, fragrant leaves overhead. It has a strange, peculiar sound, the wind in those dark, pine forests of the South,—a sound rather saddening to any listener.

Maggie did not like it at all, and said so, which rather displeased Belle, who, in her delight at returning to her beloved Southern home, found every thing there perfect. However, as they drove on, both Maggie and Bessie spied out so many objects which called forth their surprise and admiration, that she was presently consoled, and concluded that they “liked her own country pretty well, after all.”

Here and there was a magnolia with its magnificent cream-white blossoms, their delicious perfume mingling with the fragrance of the pines; there a group of scarlet cardinal flowers, or a little pool bordered with bright blue flags and spotted tiger-lilies; while through the deep stillness of the woods came the sweet notes of the blue-jay and mocking-bird. Once, as they were passing over a bridge which crossed a marsh, Maggie called the attention of the others to two turtles, great big fellows, larger than any the children had ever seen at the North; “swamp turtles” Belle said they were. They scuttled out of the way in their clumsy fashion, diving out of sight into the mud; and Bessie said she thought they must be some of the unclean animals spoken of in the Bible, since they liked to live in such a dirty place.

The entrance to the plantation was through an avenue of magnificent live-oaks, some of them so large that two or three men could not have encircled them with their outstretched arms; and these splendid trees were studded all over the lawn, spreading far and wide their branches, which, unlike their neighbors the pines, they sent out very low,—so near the ground in fact, that even Bessie could reach the gray Spanish moss which hung over them in long festoons and wreaths. The children had seen this curious moss before in the beautiful old cemetery of Bonaventure, where the oaks are perfectly clothed with it; and Bessie had admired it so much, that Maggie had taken up the idea of carrying home enough to make “a bower” for her in their own little room. But she thought it best to gain the consent of her father and mother to this arrangement; not only because it was right, but also because nurse was rather apt to call such things “truck and trash,” and to put them out of the way as fast as possible. If papa and mamma said they might have it, nurse might call it what she pleased, but she could not throw it away.

Mr. Powers stood awaiting them on the steps of the veranda, for he had been at the plantation for three or four days, while Belle and Daphne had been left in Mrs. Bradford’s charge at the hotel; for he did not think it best for Belle to sleep on the plantation at that time of the year.

She shrieked with delight when she saw him; and, in her hurry to reach him, had nearly thrown herself from Daphne’s lap underneath the carriage-wheels. There would have been an end to the day’s pleasure then; but Daphne’s hand grasped her skirts, and saved her from a terrible death.

As it was, the whole party were startled; and her father’s face had lost its smile of welcome, and looked rather pale as he came down the steps and took her in his arms.

“My pet!” he said, “always in too much of a hurry. This would have been a sad meeting for papa, if you had fallen; but a good God took care of you for me.”

Belle clung about his neck and did not speak; for whether it were the fright, or the sight of her father, or the return to the old home which she had left at such a sad time, or perhaps all three, her feelings took a sudden turn, and when Mr. Powers had brought his friends in and welcomed them, and raised the little face to kiss it again, he found it drowned in tears.

“Why! my darling,” he said, “were you so frightened?”

“I don’t know, papa,” sobbed the excitable little thing; “but, this is home—only—only—mamma is not in it.”

Tears, or something very like them, came to the eyes of all, even of Mr. and Mrs. Norris, who had never known Belle’s dead mother; and Mr. Powers turned hastily away, and stepped with her out on the veranda.

“Only mamma was not in it!” Ah, yes! that was the only that made all the difference in the world, so that home did not seem like home any longer.

It was some few moments before either of them were composed enough to return; and when Mr. Powers came back he was alone, and told Bessie that Belle wanted her to go to her.

Bessie went out upon the veranda, which ran on all four sides of the house, and around the corner she found Belle curled up on a settee where her father had placed her. She stretched out her arms to Bessie when she saw her, saying,—

“Bessie, I do remember mamma so much in my home, and you are a comfit. You are my next best comfit to papa, ever since the first day you spoke to me in school.”

This was a pleasant thing for Bessie to hear; but she put aside her own pleasure for the present, and thought only of being the “comfit” her poor little friend called her. I wonder if there was any one among all the people who knew her, who could have said that our dear Bessie was not more or less of a comfort to them.

Her sweet sympathy and gentle tenderness soon did Belle good, and Bessie let her talk on about her mother as long as she would.

Belle had been very bright and cheerful lately,—thanks to the friends with whom she had been so much thrown,—and it was a good while since she had had a fit of longing for her mother; but the coming to her home had brought her great loss back to her, and just now she could think of nothing else.

“Do you know where they put my mamma before she went to heaven?” said Belle.

“No. Where?” answered Bessie.

“Do you see those high trees over there, Bessie? They put her where little brother and sister are, and ever so many grandpas and grandmas.”

“But they didn’t put her soul there,” said Bessie.

“No,” said Belle, “’cause that was God’s part, and it went to him. And then she couldn’t speak or hear me or see me, but was all deaded away; and so they put the rest of her over there, and put a great many flowers over her. But that was a long, long while ago, before I went away to the North, and I didn’t see where they put mamma this ever so long. Maybe the flowers are all faded. Will you come and see, Bessie?”

“We must ask mamma or your papa first,” said Bessie.

“They would let us,” said Belle: “it’s a very safe place. I used to often go there when mamma was alive, to be by little brother and sister, and she is there now. There couldn’t any danger come to us where mamma is: could there, Bessie?”

“No: I guess not,” said Bessie. “I s’pose mother-angels take care of their little children. I’ll go with you, Belle dear, if you’re quite sure your papa will let us.”

“I know he would, Bessie; and I’d just as lief ask him; only then Maggie and Lily will come too. I’d like Maggie to come, but Lily laughs so much. I love Lily; but I don’t want any one to laugh where my mamma is dead.”

“No,” said Bessie, with the most caressing tenderness of tone and manner, “they shan’t; and I’ll go, Belle.”

With their arms about one another’s necks, the two little things ran down the piazza steps, and the shady path, through which Belle led the way; but as they came near the small burying-ground, their steps grew slow and more reverent.

It was an exquisite spot. An iron railing enclosed it, but the rails were hidden by the green vines which overran them, and within it was beautifully sodded; the green broken here and there by the white marble monuments and slabs which marked the resting-place of Belle’s relations. Flowers of the loveliest kinds were blossoming over and around them, and all showed the utmost care and loving remembrance. Over the entrance was an arch, also of white marble, and on the stone were cut the words, “He giveth His beloved sleep.”

“How sweet it is!” exclaimed Bessie, struck at once with the lovely quiet and peace of the place; and then she looked up and spelled out the letters on the arch.

“Sleep! that was what mamma said: it was only like a sleep if we loved Jesus and tried to do what He wanted us to, and I think it must mean Him when it says, ‘giveth His beloved sleep.’ What dear words! are they not, Belle?”

“Yes,” said Belle, but without paying much attention to what Bessie was saying, for her eye had caught sight of a new object in the enclosure.

“See!” she went on, catching Bessie by the arm: “there’s a stone there where they put mamma;” and drawing Bessie with her, she pushed open the light gate.

It swung easily back, for it was unfastened. There were none here to intrude, no one came here who would not guard with the greatest love and reverence the little spot sacred to “His beloved.”

“His beloved!” For of those who lay there, not one but had closed their eyes in the full faith that they should open them again upon the brightness of His face. Truly that was “God’s Acre.”

The “stone” which had attracted Belle’s attention was a shaft of pure white marble upon her mother’s grave. The centre had been cut away so as to leave four small arches, one on each side, and beneath there was a cross, with the letters “I. H. S.;” before that an open Bible, with the words, “I will not leave you comfortless.”

The sculptor had done his work perfectly; and the snowy marble showed in beautiful contrast with the dark, glossy leaves of the bay tree which spread its arms above it.

“Papa put it there, I know he did,” said Belle, after she and Bessie had stood looking at it in silence for a moment or two.

“Yes: I s’pose he did,” said Bessie: “let’s see what these words are, Belle.”

By standing on tiptoe, the little ones could manage to see the letters carved upon the book; and Bessie read them out as she had done those over the gateway.

“‘I will not leave you comfortless,’” Belle repeated after her. “Why! mamma said that herself a little while before she went to heaven. Maybe that was why papa put it there.”

“And Jesus said it,” replied Bessie. “It’s in the Bible, in a chapter I’ve heard very often. Don’t you remember, Belle? It begins, ‘Let not your heart be troubled;’ and Jesus said it Himself. Perhaps the reason He told people not to be troubled was He was going to promise to comfort them when they had something very bad to bear. It’s the best comfort to know He loves you and will take you to heaven to see your mamma some day: isn’t it, Belle?”

“He will if I’m good,” passing her little hand slowly and caressingly over the marble; “but then I’m not always good.”

“No,” said Bessie, “not always; but mamma said you was not near so spoiled as you used to be. I think you’re pretty good now, Belle.”

“I slapped Daphne’s face this morning,” whispered Belle, remorsefully.

“Oh! did you?” said Bessie. “Well, Belle, I used to slap people sometimes, even when I had mamma to teach me better, and there was no excuse for me.”

“But my own mamma did teach me better, Bessie. I slap Daphne pretty often, but she never tells papa; and I promise myself I’ll never do it again, and then I just do.”

“Did you ever promise Jesus and ask Him to help you not to do it?” asked Bessie.

“No,” answered Belle. “I didn’t think of it. I could do it now, couldn’t I?”

“Yes,” said Bessie.

They knelt down together side by side, and Belle said in a soft but steady voice, for her tears had now ceased,—

“Dear Jesus, I promise not to slap Daphne any more, or not to be naughty any more if I can help it; and you will help me to be good. Amen.”

Then pressing her lips to the cold stone, as if it were the warm, living cheek she had once caressed, she said in a pleading, pathetic whisper,—

“Dear mamma, your little Belle will try to be just as good as you would want her to be if you were here wif her.”

Will any doubt that the “mother-angel” heard and rejoiced over the simple promise uttered by her little one’s trusting lips?

“Do you think it really makes Jesus glad when I’m good?” asked Belle, when they had risen from their knees.

“Oh! to be sure it does,” answered Bessie.

“And He did leave me some comfit: didn’t He, Bessie? He left me papa, and He gave me you and Maggie too; and your mamma is a great comfit too.”

“Mamma’s the best comfort of anybody,” said Bessie.

“Oh, no, Bessie! oh, no! Papa best—you next.”

Bessie did not contradict her, though she thought it a very strange opinion for Belle to hold, and was not at all convinced herself.

“I wish papa was here to stay with me by mamma a little while,” said Belle, presently.

“Shall I go ask him to come?” asked Bessie.

“Yes,” said Belle. “Do you know the way?”

“Oh, yes! It’s right up that path, isn’t it?”

Then she kissed Belle and left her, turning back as she passed through the gate, to look at her little playmate sitting by her mother’s grave and leaning her head pensively against the monument. But Belle smiled as she met Bessie’s eye, and the little girl felt that she had not been left quite “comfortless.” Her own heart was very full of love and sympathy.

Bessie ran up the path till she was nearly half way to the house, when she was brought to a sudden stand-still by what she thought a very alarming object. Just before her was a large black dog, broad-chested, tall, and fierce-looking, standing directly in the path, and seeming as though he meant to dispute the way.

Bessie’s heart was in her mouth and her knees shook; but she did not scream. She looked at the dog and he looked at her, but he did not bark or growl. Then she found her voice, and tried what coaxing would do.

“Nice doggie, nice little doggie,” she said to the great creature. “Does little doggie want Bessie to go away? Well, she will. But then the good little fellow mustn’t bark at Bessie and frighten her.”

Bessie had an idea that her seeming enemy could bite as well as bark if he saw fit occasion; but she did not think it wisest to suggest it to him.

It must have been a hard-hearted dog, indeed, which could have resisted that insinuating voice and smile, and either bark or bite; and this one did not seem inclined to do the one or the other; but then neither did he seem to intend to move out of the path, but stood stock still gazing at his unwilling little companion.

Seeing that he appeared peaceable, Bessie took courage, and, edging off upon the grass, went a few steps forward. But as she passed the dog, he turned and placed himself before her, though still without any show of attacking her.

Bessie was pretty well frightened; but she began her wiles again, talking to him as she would have done to Baby Annie or Flossy.

“Poor fellow! nice doggie. Bessie wouldn’t hurt little doggie for any thing. Doggie, doggie, doggie! He’ll let Bessie go to the house, won’t he? Don’t he want to go and see Belle down there?”

Now you must not think that Bessie wanted to save herself by exposing her little friend; for she knew that this must be Duke, the great English blood-hound, of which Belle had often spoken, saying how loving and good Duke was to her, although he was fierce and unfriendly with strangers.

But no, all coaxing proved useless: the dog stood his ground and would not suffer her to pass, even giving a low growl and seizing the skirt of her dress when she tried once more to do so.

Bessie was dreadfully frightened, and was about to call aloud for help, when she saw Mr. Powers coming towards her from the house. As he came down the path, a great snake glided from beneath some low bushes on the other side, passed swiftly over the narrow path, and would have been out of sight in an instant, had not the dog, suddenly all alert, bounded forward, seized it by the back of the neck, and giving it a violent shake, left it lying dead.

“How is this, dear child?” said Mr. Powers, looking from the dog and snake to the child. “Old Ben told me he had seen you and Belle going to the burying-ground. Where is Belle?”

“Yes, sir, we did,” answered Bessie; “and Belle is there now, waiting for you to come to her mamma’s grave. I was just coming to tell you, and that dog stopped me. He’s a pretty naughty dog; he wouldn’t let me go on, and he killed the poor snake that did not do a bit of harm, but was just running away as fast as he could.”

“Duke knew he would do harm if he but found the chance, my child,” said Mr. Powers. “That is a very venomous snake, and the dog’s care may have saved you from being badly bitten. Good Duke! brave fellow!” and Mr. Powers patted the dog’s head. “It is years and years since we have seen a snake of this kind upon the plantation, and I hope it may be long before we see another. You and Belle have each escaped a great danger this morning, Bessie. I am glad too that old Duke was not bitten.”

Bessie was very grateful to Duke now, and she too patted and caressed him. He seemed to think himself, that he had performed a great feat, as indeed he had; and kept looking up at his master and thrusting his nose into his hand as if to call for more thanks. Bessie’s attentions he received more coolly, though he permitted them.

“Run up to the house now, you steady little woman,” said Mr. Powers: “your mother is wondering where you can be, though she said you were to be trusted not to get into mischief. It is a good thing to have such a character, Bessie.”

When Duke saw that Bessie and his master were going in different directions, he seemed to be divided in his own mind as to which one he had better accompany. But after looking from one to the other he seemed to decide that Bessie needed his protection, and trotted gravely along by her side till she reached the house, when he turned about and raced after his master.

Bessie went in and told her story, but so simply and with so little fuss that her mother had no idea of the danger she had been in, till Mr. Powers came with Belle and told how she, as well as Belle, had been mercifully preserved from harm that morning.

When Belle came back with her father, she was quite composed, and soon became cheerful again, though she was rather more quiet than usual all the morning.

As soon as the party were rested after their drive, they all went out for a walk about the place. Mr. Powers’ estate was a rice plantation, and the children were greatly interested in going through the mills and seeing how the rice, so familiar to them as an article of food, was prepared for the market. They were particularly so, in watching the husking of the rice. The grain was stored on the second story of the buildings, in great boxes or bins. There was a little sliding-door in each of these, just above the bottom of the bin; and when the men were ready to go to work, a trough was placed leading from that, through a trap-door, to a hopper on the floor below. Then the bin door was opened, and the rice in its brown husks slid through the trough into the hopper beneath, and from thence into the mill, on each side of which stood a man who turned the arms of the mill. In this, the outer husk was stripped from the rice; then it passed through another wide, covered trough, into the sifting or winnowing machine. This was a large box with a wheel at the bottom which turned the rice over and over. As it came to the top, the chaff was blown away by a great “four sided fan,” as Bessie called it, made of four pieces of canvas stretched in different directions, and fixed upon a roller which was turned round by a man, and fanned away the light husks broken from the grain on its passage through the mill. But this was only the outer husk; and it had to go down a third trough into another mill, where the inner covering was taken off; then through a second fanning machine, from which it came out clean and white; and lastly into a third building, where it was led into another range of bins, till it should be necessary to put it into the bags and barrels in which it was sent to market.

Maggie, as usual, wanted to “help;” and the good-natured colored men who were about let her try her hand at just what she chose, provided it was safe for her. Indeed, all the children, even Belle, to whom the amusement was not new, were greatly pleased to pull up the sliding panels of the bins, and see the rice come pouring down into the mill-hopper, and to thrust their hands and arms into the white grain, and shovel it into the bags. So entertained were they with this business, that the older people walked on when they had satisfied their own curiosity, leaving the children in the care of old Cato, who promised to see that they came to no harm.

“We’ve done a whole lot of work, Mr. Powers,” said Maggie, when they were called back to the house to dinner. “I think your men must be pretty glad we came.”

“Yes,” said Lily: “we’ve most filled two bags and a barrel.”

“And we didn’t spill very much either,” said Bessie, who was at that moment laboring away with a wooden shovel, on which she contrived to take up about two table-spoonsful of rice.

“Capital!” said Mr. Powers: “you’ve earned your dinner to-day, have you not?”

Whether the dinners were fairly earned or no, the exercise had given them all good appetites, and they were not sorry to go in and take their seats at the well-furnished table.