Her mother laid her finger on her lips, and beckoned silently.

In another instant Lloyd was in her lap.

She had cried herself quiet in the dark corner under the piano; but there was something more pathetic in her eyes than tears.

It was the expression of one who understood and sympathized.
"Oh, mothah," she whispered, "we does have such lots of troubles." "Yes, chickabiddy, but I hope they will soon be over now," was the answer, as the anxious face tried to smile bravely for the child's sake, "Papa is sleeping so nicely now he is sure to be better in the morning." That comforted the Little Colonel some, but for days she was haunted by the fear of the poorhouse.
Every time her mother paid out any money she looked anxiously to see how much was still left.

She wandered about the place, touching the trees and vines with caressing hands, feeling that she might soon have to leave them.
She loved them all so dearly,--every stick and stone, and even the stubby old snowball bushes that never bloomed.
Her dresses were outgrown and faded, but no one had any time or thought to spend on getting her new ones.