Dr. Lacey laughed heartily at this and called her an “original little piece,” at the same time saying, “You remind me of my sister Anna.”

“Where does she live?” asked Fanny.

Dr. Lacey sighed as he answered, “For three years she has lived in heaven; three long years to us, who loved her so dearly.”

Fanny observed that he seemed agitated while speaking of his sister, so she dared not ask him more about her, although she wished very much to do so.  Perhaps he read her wishes in her face, for he went on to tell her more of his sister, who, he said, drooped day by day, and they took her to Cuba, but she daily grew worse, and often spoke of dying and heaven, and then one bright summer morning she passed away from them, and they buried her under a group of dark orange trees.  That night Fanny dreamed of sweet Anna Lacey, sleeping so quietly in her lone grave, far off ’neath the orange trees of Cuba.  Julia had dreams, too, but of a different nature.  In her fancy she beheld Dr. Lacey at her feet, with his handsome person, princely fortune, and magnificent home near New Orleans, while off in the dim distance loomed up a dark coffin, in which was the cold, pale form of one whom she knew too well.  Was her dream an omen of the coming future?  We shall see.

Next morning just as the town clock rang out the hour of eight, a strange-looking vehicle, to which was attached a remarkably poor-looking horse, was seen picking its way slowly through the upper part of Main street, Frankfort.  The driver of this establishment was a negro boy, whom we readily recognize as our friend Ike.  He was taking it leisurely through the town, stopping before every large “smart” looking house to reconnoiter, and see if it resembled the one his master had described.

At last he was accosted by a young African, who called out, “Ho, thar, old boy!  What you keepin’ yer eyes peeled and yer’ mouth open for?  Is you catchin’ flies?”

“No, sar,” replied Ike.  “I’s tryin’ to find Miss Crane’s boardin’ house.”

“Oh, yes; wall, it’s up t’other way.  You jist turn that old rackerbone of your’n straight round and turn down that ar street, whar you see that steeple, and, the fust house on the corner is Miss Crane’s.  But say, is you and that ar quadruped jist out of the ark?”

“I dun know nothin’ ’bout yer ark,” said Ike, whose Scripture knowledge was rather limited, “but I ‘longs to Marster Josh, and I’m goin’ to see Miss Fanny—­and now I think of it, won’t you ride?”

“Lord, no,” said the negro; “I’m in a great hurry; goin’ arter the doctor for ole miss, who’s sartin she’s goin’ for to die this time.”

“You don’t seem in much of a hurry,” said Ike.

“No,” returned the other; “old miss has died a heap o’ times, by spells, so I reckon she’ll hang on this time till I git back, jist so she can jaw me for being gone so long.”

So they parted, the stranger negro to go for the doctor and Ike to go to Mrs. Crane’s, with his berries, and Aunt Judy’s cranberry pie.  He had often wondered during his ride whether Fanny would not give him a piece of the pie.  As often as this thought entered his brain, he would turn down the white napkin, and take a peep at the tempting pastry; then he would touch it with his fingers and finally take it up and smell of it just a little!