nly between the two baskets, and handed one to Crow.
If there ever was a serious little black boy on God's beautiful earth it was little Solomon Crow as he balanced his basket of figs on his head that day and went slowly down the garden walk and out the great front gate.
The next few weeks were not without trial to the boy. Old Mr. Cary continued very stern, even following him daily to the banquette, as if he dare not trust him to go out alone. And when he closed the iron gate after him he would say in a tone that was awfully solemn:
That was all.
Little Crow dreaded that walk to the gate more than all the rest of the ordeal. And yet, in a way, it gave him courage. He was at least worth while, and with time and patience he would win back the lost faith of the friends who were kind to him even while they could not trust him. They were, indeed, kind and generous in many ways, both to him and his unworthy mother.
Fig-time was soon nearly ove
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