"I believe I will go out and look at the ponies," remarked Mr. Conover.
"Mind they're put out. You're not going to stir a step till you've had your dinner. Marthy, you peel them taters; quick now." This to a rather pretty girl of ten, who had been writing with a pin on the steamed window-pane.
"Come in the other room," said Sarah to Kathie.
The child followed. It was not very warm yet, but there was a great crackling, blazing fire upon the hearth, which was a delightful picture in itself.
Sarah stood and viewed her guest wonderingly. The long golden curls, the clear, fine complexion, the neat-fitting dress, the small white hands, and the dainty kid boots, were all marvels to her.
"You're very rich," she said, presently, in a peculiar manner, as if she could almost find it in her heart to envy Kathie and grow discontented with herself. Kathie's fine sense and tact detected it.
She stretched out her hand and took Sarah's,—a little rough, but soft and plump. "My uncle is," she answered; "he is very good to us children. My father died when I was a tiny little girl."
"Did he?" Sarah knelt down, and began to wind the silken curls over her finger. "But you are so—so different. You don't have to work,—do you?"
"A little," and Kathie smiled.