was not so sweet as what seemed to come from the direction of the locust-trees, so she walked to the head of the steps and looked down them. Somehow they did not look nearly so long, nor so steep, as they had last year, but last year she was only four years old, and this year she was five, and Uncle Rob had promised her that if she would not cry more than once a week, all summer, he would let her be six next year. And now she hadn't cried a single time for two whole weeks, and if she kept on that way, perhaps—only perhaps, for he hadn't said so, he would let her be seven next year instead of six—or, if she didn't cry any at all—Cheery's eyes grew big—perhaps next year she would be a beautiful young lady, with a long, fluffy, pink dress, and her hair done up high with a lovely comb. She gathered the curls into her hand, and just then a robin in one of the locust-trees called: "Cheery, Cheery, Cheery!" and she forgot all about the pink dress and the lovely comb, and started
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