There was a favorable breeze this Saturday afternoon, and the little boat, with its shining white paint and snowy sail, skimmed swiftly across the harbor.  Sylvia watched the little waves which seemed to dance forward to meet them, looked at the many boats and vessels, and quite forgot Elinor Mayhew’s unkindness.  Her mother and father were talking of the black servants, whom they had hired with the house of Mr. Robert Waite, Grace’s uncle.  Sylvia heard them speak of Aunt Connie, the good-natured black cook, who lived in a cabin behind the Fultons’ kitchen.

“Aunt Connie wants to bring her little girl to live with her.  Their master is willing, if we have no objections,” Sylvia heard her mother say.

“Oh, let the child come,” Mr. Fulton responded; “how old is she?”

“Just Sylvia’s age.  Her name is Estralla,” replied Mrs. Fulton.

“You’ll have a little darky for a playmate, Sylvia.  How will you like that?” her father asked.  But before Sylvia could answer, the boat swung alongside the landing-place at the fort and she saw her father’s friend, Captain Carleton, waiting to welcome them.

The band was playing, and a few people were on the parapet.

“Not many visitors to-day,” said the Captain, as they all walked on together.  “I am afraid the Charleston people resent the fact that the United States is protecting its property.”

As they walked along the Captain pointed to the sand which the wind had blown into heaps about the sea-front of the old fort.  “A child of ten could easily come into the fort over those sand-banks,” he said.

“Whose fort is this?” asked Sylvia, so earnestly that both the Captain and her father smiled.

“It belongs to the United States, of which South Carolina is one,” replied the Captain.

Sylvia gave a little sigh of satisfaction.  Even Elinor Mayhew could not find any fault with that, she thought, and she was eager to get home and tell Grace what the Captain had said.

On the way back Sylvia asked her mother if she knew that there was a song with her name in it.

“Why, of course, dear child.  You were named for that very Sylvia,” replied her mother.

“’Then to Sylvia let us sing,
    That Sylvia is excelling;
  She excels each mortal thing
    Upon the dull earth dwelling;
  To her let us garlands bring’”—­

sang Mrs. Fulton; “and you can thank your father for choosing your name,” she added gaily.

“Oh!  But Grace said it was about spelling,” explained Sylvia; “but I like your way best,” she added quickly.

There were a good many pleasant things for Sylvia to think of that night.  Not every girl could be named out of a song, she reflected.  Then there was the little colored girl Estralla, who was to arrive the next day, and besides these interesting facts, she had discovered who really owned the forts, and could tell her schoolmates on Monday.  All these pleasant happenings made Sylvia forgetful of Elinor Mayhew’s unkindness.  Before bedtime she had learned the words of the song from which she was named.  She knew Grace would think that “excelling” was much better than “spelling.”