There had been a week of active preparation, and now everything was ready, and Mary Duff and Courage, seated on a new little rope-bound trunk, were waiting for Larry to come. The house looked sadly forlorn and empty, for Mary had sold most of the furniture, that the money it brought might be put in the bank for Courage, and the only thing yet to be done was to hand over the keys to the new tenant expecting to take possession on the morrow. Mary had intentionally arranged matters in just this fashion. It was not going to be an easy thing to say good-bye to the little girl she had so lovingly cared for since her babyhood, and she knew well enough that to come back alone to the old home would half break her heart; therefore she had wisely planned that it should be “good-bye” to Courage and “how do you do” to little lame Joe in as nearly the same breath as possible.

At last there came a knock at the door, and Courage bounded to open it. Bruce, unmannerly fellow, crowded in first, and after Bruce, Larry, and after Larry—what? who? A most remarkable-looking object, with tight curling hair braided fine as a rope into six funny little pig-tails, with skin but a shade lighter than her coal-black eyes, and with a stiffly starched pink calico skirt standing out at much the same angle as the pig-tails. Mary Duff apparently was not in the least surprised at this apparition, but Courage stared in wide-eyed wonder. “Oh, isn't she funny?” were the words that sprang to her lips, but too considerate to give them utterance, she simply asked, “Who is she, Larry?”

“This is Sylvia,” said Larry; “Sylvia, this is Miss Courage,” whereupon Sylvia gave a little backward kick with one foot, which she meant to have rank as a bow.

“And who is Sylvia?” in a friendly voice that went straight to Sylvia's heart.

“She's to be company for you on the lighter, Courage, and a little maid of all work besides.”

“Spesh'ly I'se to wash up,” Sylvia volunteered, beaming from ear to ear.

“What do you mean?” asked Courage, with considerable dignity, seeming to realize at a bound the relation of mistress and maid.

“Mean dat on boats dere's allers heaps an' heaps to wash up—pots an' kittles an' dishes an' lan' knows what—an' dat me's de one dat's gwine do it. A-washin' of demselves is all de washin' dat's 'spected of dose little lily white han's, Miss Courage, case de Cap'n say so—didn't yer, Cap'n?” whereupon Sylvia gave a marvellous little pirouette on one foot, that made pigtails and skirt describe a larger circle than ever.

“Yes, that's what I said,” answered Larry, rather taken aback by this performance, and wondering if he had gotten more than he had bargained for in this sable little specimen, chosen somewhat at random from the half dozen presented for his inspection at an asylum the day before. But Courage had no fears, and saw in anticipation delightful opportunities for no end of fun, and, when it should be needed, for a little patronizing discipline. Meanwhile Bruce, who seemed unquestionably worried as to what sort of a move was pending, had made his way out of doors, and taken up his stand near the boy who stood in waiting with a hand-cart, ready to carry the trunk to the boat. When at last the trunk was in the cart, with Sylvia's bundle atop of it, and it became evident that the little party were actually on their way to the lighter, his delight knew no bounds, and he flew round and round after his tail, as a relief to his exuberant feelings.

Courage kept tight hold of Mary Duff's hand all the way. Of course it was going to be lovely out on the water all summer, and with Larry; but oh, how she wished Mary was to be there too! But that always seemed to be the way somehow—something very nice and something very sad along with it. Glancing ahead to Sylvia, who, with a jolly little swing of her own, was trotting along at the side of the cart, steadying her bundle with a very black hand, Courage wondered if she had found it so too, and resolved some day to ask her.

The good-byes were said rather hurriedly at the last. Mary Duff first went down into the cabin with Courage and helped to unpack her trunk. Then, when finally there was nothing more for her to do, there was just a good hard hug and two or three very hard kisses, and then you might have seen a familiar figure disappearing around the nearest corner of the dock, and Mary Duff was gone. As soon as she was out of sight she stopped a moment and wiped the tears from her eyes with a corner of her shawl, for they were fairly blinding her, and then hurried right on to the little cripple, to whom her coming was to prove the very most blessed thing that had ever happened. As for Courage, she went to her own little room and had a good cry there, and though neither of them knew of the other's tears, the skies soon looked clearer to them both. But there was one pair of eyes in which tears were not for a moment to be thought of. Tears! with the great orphan asylum left behind and all the delights of life on that beautiful boat opening out before her? No indeed! Let Miss Courage have her little cry out if she must, but for Sylvia, a face wreathed in smiles so broad as to develop not unfrequently into an audible chuckle. And so while Courage was trying to get herself in hand, for she did not want Larry to know how badly she felt, Sylvia, acting under orders, was as busy as could be, setting the table in the cabin, and making supper ready in the tiny kitchen.

When Courage again came on deck, the lighter had cleared the wharf and was well out upon the river. Larry was at the helm, and she made her way straight to him and slipped her hand in his, as much as to say, “I'm yours now, you know, Larry,” and Larry gave it a tight little squeeze, as much as to say, “Yes, I know you are, dear,” and they understood each other perfectly, though not a word was spoken.

“Don't you think I had better call you uncle or something instead of just Larry?” said Courage after she had stood silently at his side for ever so many minutes.

“Why?” asked Larry, amused at the suggestion.

“Oh, because it doesn't seem right for a child like me to call you by your first name. I should have thought that they would have taught me different.”

“Oh, bless your heart, Courage! nobody taught you what to call me..You just took up 'Larry' of yourself in the cutest sort of a way, and before you could say half-a-dozen words to your name, and now to tack an uncle on to it after all these years would sound mighty queer, and I shouldn't like it.”

“Well, then, we'll just let it be Larry always,” and indeed Courage herself was more than willing to have things remain as they were. As for Sylvia, she soon decided that her one form of address for Larry should be “my Cap'n,” for was he not in very truth her captain by grace of his choice of her from among all the other little colored orphans whom he might have taken? Indeed, Sylvia fairly seemed to revel in the two-lettered personal pronoun, for if there is a Saxon word for which the average institution child has comparatively little use it is that word my. Where children are cared for by the hundreds, my and me and mine and all that savors of the individual are almost perforce lost sight of. No wonder, then, when Sylvia said “my Cap'n,” it was in a tone implying a most happy sense of ownership, and as though it stood for the “my father” and “my mother” and all the other “mys” of more fortunate little children.

At last Sylvia's supper was ready, and before announcing the fact, she stood a moment, arms akimbo, taking a critical survey of her labors. Then, convinced that nothing had been forgotten, she cleared the cabin stairs at a bound, and beckoning to Larry and Courage, called out excitedly, “Come 'long dis minute, please, 'fore it all gets cold.”

Larry, who had many misgivings as to the result of his protegee's first efforts, was greatly surprised on reaching the cabin to find a most tempting little table spread out before them, but it was hard to tell whether surprise or indignation gained the mastery In the eyes of astonished Courage. That the table looked most attractive no one could for a moment deny, but what most largely contributed thereto was a glorious bunch of scarlet geraniums, to compass which Sylvia had literally stripped a double row of plants standing in the cabin window of every flower. These plants had been Mary Duff's special pride for several seasons, and she herself had carefully superintended their transportation in a wheelbarrow to the lighter the day before.

Who could marvel, then, that the tears came unbidden, as Courage at one glance took in the whole situation—the elaborate decorations, the sadly despoiled plants.

“Oh, Sylvia, how could you?” was all she found words to say. Poor Sylvia, never more surprised in her life, stood aghast for a moment, looking most beseechingly to Larry. Then a possibility dawned upon her.

“Am it dem posies, Miss Courage?” and the question let the light in on Larry's bewildered mind.

“Of course I mean the flowers,” said Courage, laying one hand caressingly on a poor little dismantled plant. “You have not left a single one, and I wouldn't have had you pick them for all the world.”

“But I was 'bliged to, Miss Courage,” with all the aplomb of a conscientious performance of duty.

“Obliged to?” and then it seemed to occur simultaneously to Larry and Courage that they had possibly secured the services of a veritable little lunatic.

“Yes, Miss Courage; hab you neber hearn tell of a kitchen garden?”

“Never,” said Courage; and now she and Larry exchanged glances as to the certainty of Sylvia's mental condition.

“Well, I'se a kitchen-garden grajate,” Sylvia announced with no little pride.

“Bless my stars! if you're not a stark little idiot,” muttered Larry under his breath, but fortunately Sylvia was too absorbed to hear.

“Well, dere ain't much you kin tell a kitchen-garden grajate,” she continued complacently, “'bout setting tables and sich like. Dere's questions and answers 'bout eberyting, you know, an' when Miss Sylvester ses, 'What must yer hab in de middle ob de table?' the answer is, 'Fruit or flowers so as there wasn't no fruit, why—” and Sylvia, pausing abruptly, gave a little shrug of her shoulders, and with a grandiloquent gesture, pointed to the geraniums, as though further words were superfluous.

“Oh, I didn't understand,” said Courage, for both she and Larry were beginning to comprehend the situation, and a little later on, when they had had time to realize more fully the careful arrangement of the table, to say nothing of the tempting dishes themselves, they were ready to pronounce the little lunatic of a few moments previous a veritable treasure. The ham was done “to a turn;” the fried potatoes were deliciously crisp; dainty little biscuits fairly melted in your mouth; the coffee was perfection, and Sylvia sat beaming and radiant, for there was no lack of openly expressed appreciation.

“What did you say you were, Sylvia?” asked Courage during the progress of the meal.

“Oh, I didn't say I was nuffin 't all,” nervously fearing that in some unconscious way she might again have offended her new little mistress.

“Yes, you did, don't you know?” pretending not to notice the nervousness. “It was something nice to be; it began with kitchen.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sylvia, much relieved, “a kitchen-garden grajate. Want to see my di-diplomer?” including both Larry and Courage in one glance as she spoke. Wholly mystified as to what the article might be, both of course nodded yes, whereupon Sylvia, plunging one little black fist down the neck of her dress, vainly endeavored to bring something to the surface.

“It kinder sticks,” she explained confidentially, but in another second a shining medal attached to a blue ribbon came flying out with appalling momentum. “Dere now,” she said, giving a backward dive through the encircling ribbon, “dat's what I got for larning all dere was to larn.”

Courage took the medal and examined it. It was made of some bright metal, and was stamped with the figure of a girl with a broom in her hand. Across the top were the words “Kitchen Garden,” and on a little scroll at the bottom the name Sylvia Sylvester.

“Why do they call it a kitchen garden?” asked Courage, passing the medal on for Larry's inspection; “it's an awful funny name.”

“Glory knows! ain't no sense in it, I reckon.”

“And that medal,” added Courage, “was a sort of a prize for doing things better than the others, wasn't it?”

“No, Miss Courage, dat's a reg'lar diplomer. All de chillens in de school had 'em when, dey grajated.”

Courage looked appealingly toward Larry, to see if he knew what she meant, and Larry looked just as appealingly to Courage. The truth was, Sylvia had the best of them both. To be sure, she used a pronunciation of her own, but it was near enough to the original to have suggested graduate and diploma to minds in anywise familiar with the articles.

“And did they teach you to cook in the kitchen garden?” Courage asked, feeling that she must remain quite hopelessly in the dark regarding the words in question.

“No, dat was an extry. One ob de lady man'gers, Miss Caxton, teached us de cookin'. She was a lubly lady—sich a kind face, and sich daisy gray haar, and allers so jolly. She came twic't a week, case she was dat fond ob cookin' and liked chillens. She ses black skins didn't make no difference. One ob dese days I'se gwine to write down for yer all de dishes what she teached how to cook.”

And so the first meal aboard the lighter fared on, and before it was over Larry made up his mind that as soon as he could afford it he would send five dollars to the orphan asylum and a letter besides, in which he would warmly express his approval of an institution that sent its little waifs out into the world so well equipped for rendering valuable service.