pail—hold up your pitcher, and I'll pump that full." The courtesies of childhood have more expression than form. The stranger held up the pitcher till the water ran over it, and followed the, little girls back with a lighter step. As she reached the door-step, an impatient voice called, "Juliet! Juliet!" She ran up the stairs, set her pitcher within the door, and eagerly returned, apparently in the hope of again seeing the little Aikins; but they had gone in, and no one. was at the door but Uncle Phil and the baby. "So, your name is Juliet, is it?" he asked, eagerly seizing on a starting-point to begin his acquaintance.
"Yes, sir," replied Juliet, gently taking the hand the baby had stretched to snatch her ear-ring.
"Juliet what?" pursued Uncle Phil.
"Juliet Smith, sir."
"Smith?" ejaculated Uncle Phil, disappointed at hearing a name that afforded no clew.
"Yes, Smith—at least mother's name is Smith."
"Then yours is, sartin."
"No, it is not, sir—she is not my real mother."
"Is not? do tell! what is your real mother's name?"
"My own mother is dead, sir."
"Well, what was her name, child?" .
"I don't know, sir; take care, baby, don't pull my ear so."
"Be done, Phil—poor little captain, he never sees such notions—our gals don't wear them. But did you never ask your own mother's name?"
"Yes, sir; and she says she'll tell me all about her one of these days."
"Are you sure she is dead?"
