And Red Coat might 'a' bit the po' child
traipsin' 'long in the dark. You got to shut that dog up nights," she
said, as if every evening was to bring a little lost Anne wandering into
danger. "To think of puttin' a po' little motherless, fatherless thing
in a 'sylum," she continued. "Many homes as thar is in this world!--Le'
me fry you another plateful of nice brown cakes, honey, and get you some
damson preserves--maybe you like them better'n sweetmeats. Or would you
choose raspberry jam?" She had thrown open the diamond-paned doors of
the bookcase, now used as a pantry, and was looking over the rows of
jars.
"I couldn't eat another mouthful of anything; indeed, I couldn't,"
insisted Anne.
"I wish you would," sighed Mrs. Collins. "It gives me a feelin' to see
yo' po' thin little face--no wider'n a knitting needle."
Anne laughed. "I ate ever so many cakes. They were so good--as good as
Aunt Charity's. Please--where is Aunt Charity?"
"Aunt Charity who?" asked Mrs. Collins.
"Our old Aunt Charity and Uncle Richard that used to live here."
"Oh! You mean them old darkies. They moved away the year we come here.
They--"
"Mammy, I want to know her name," insisted Lizzie, in an undertone.
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