"Prudy," said Dotty, "you needn't say that word 'wherrying' to me any more. Mamma said there mus'n't anybody tease me about that, because I've—I've repented it all up."

"O, I'm so glad!" replied Prudy.

"I'll never take another bird into the window," continued Dotty; "it's almost as bad as a ghost."

"You never saw a ghost, Dotty. Nobody ever did."

"Yes, indeed; Angeline has seen 'em as thick as spatter! They come when you're asleep, and there don't anybody know it. I shouldn't dare open my eyes in the night. They're wrapped in a sheet, all white, and their eyes snap like fire. Angeline says they do."

"I don't believe it," said Prudy, stoutly; "my mother told me 'twasn't true."

"P'r'aps mamma doesn't wake up in the night," said Dotty, "and p'r'aps the ghosts never come where she is. Why, Prudy, they're made out o' nothing! If you stick a knife into 'em it goes right through, and don't touch their blood, for they haven't got any blood. They don't care for knives—they're just like bubbles."

"I don't believe it," replied Prudy, again. "I think it's wicked. My mother wouldn't like it if she knew how much you sat in Angeline's lap and talked about ghosts. I don't want to see any or hear any."

"I do, though!" cried Dotty. "I shouldn't be afraid—the leastest speck. I'd go right up to 'em, and, said I, 'How do you do, sir?' And then they would melt like a wink. It blows 'em right out the moment you speak."

"Does it, though?" said Johnny, who had been listening at the door. "You don't say so! Call me when you see your ghostses, and let me talk to 'em too."

"And me! What is um?" said wee Katie, toddling in with her mouth full of candy.

"There, there!" cried Dotty Dimple, "you've been a-listening, Johnny Eastman."

"Don't care! 'Tisn't so bad as being a tell-tale, Miss!" said Johnny, ending the sentence in a naughty tone.

"Why, Johnny, you mus'n't say that!"

"Why, Johnny," echoed Katie, "you musser say that!"

"Say what?"

"Say Miss."

The children all laughed at this.

"Come, little ones," said Mr. Parlin, appearing at the door, "put on your hats; we are ready to start."

Prudy clapped her hands—an action which cousin Percy did not consider very polite.

"It shows," said he, "how glad you are to leave us."

"O, but we are going home, you know, Percy! Only think of having a home to go to!"

"It isn't the burnt one, though," remarked Dotty, as she danced off the door-step; "and I 'spect I'll never see that darling little tea-set any more."

The new house was not in the least like the old one. Susy was always bewailing the contrast. She did not like the wallpaper; the carpets were homely; the rooms were, some of them, too large, and the door-yard, certainly, too small.

"But it's better than nothing," said Prudy, who, for one, was heartily tired of visiting.

"I think," said Mrs. Parlin, smiling, "this is a very good opportunity for my little daughters to learn to make the best of everything. We cannot have the old house, so we will try not to long for it. We never wish for the moon, you know."

"Katie does," laughed Susy.

"We cannot have the old home again, so we will make the new one as happy as we can. Isn't that the best way?"

"Of course it is, mamma," replied all the children.

"'Course, indeed, it is!" said Katie, trying to pull up the carpet in her search for a lost three-cent piece.

"I'm glad father's dressing-gown and slippers didn't get scorched," said Prudy; "and the piano sounds as sweetly as ever it did. It sounds to me just as if there was a family in there, living inside."

"Like what?"

"O, you know there are four parts playing at once, and it seems as if it was a man and his wife, and two children, all singing together!"

"I'm glad we brought so many flowers from aunt Eastman's," said Susy, brightening; "now we'll trim all the rooms."

"That is right," said Mrs. Parlin. "This is the first night in the new house: let us make it as cheerful as we can for dear papa. Susy, you may as well practise that new tune he likes so well."

"O, mamma," said Prudy, "I'll tell you what I'll do! I'll make some vinegar candy!—if you'll boil it, you know, and pull it."

"A very brilliant idea, my daughter. Your part will be the looking on, I suppose."

"And what'll I do?" queried Dotty, twisting the inevitable lock of front hair; "if papa would only give me some money, I'd go and buy him a present."

"The wisest thing you can do just now, dear, is to wash that berry-stain off your lips; then you may bring me a fresh ruffle to baste in the neck of this dress."

Dotty obeyed at once. She was always glad to wear that white delaine with the scarlet spots.

The whole family were so very busy during the afternoon, that they forgot to feel any regrets for the old home. The furniture had been brought and arranged some time before, and the most Mrs. Parlin expected to do to-day was to make the house as pleasant as possible. Susy was allowed to attend to the flowers; the three others looked on, and watched Mrs. Parlin, while she made vinegar candy, filled some tarts with jelly, and helped Norah set the supper-table.

"How nice!" said Prudy, rubbing her hands. "Sometimes I don't much care if our house was burnt up."

"Nor I either," said Dotty. "This house has got a good deal the best places to hide in."

Mrs. Parlin smiled, in her sweet, contented way. She was thinking how many blessings we can all find in our lot if we only look for them. Not that she would ever have known about the "nice places to hide in" if the children had not mentioned them.

"Dotty," said she, "you may run up and ask grandmother if she will dare drink any coffee to-night."

Prudy and Dotty tripped up the broad staircase, which wound about so much that Prudy said it twisted her like a string. Katie ran after them, catching her breath.

There sat the dear grandmamma, knitting some winter stockings for Prudy. There were no curtains at the windows, and the August sunshine fell on her calm face, bathing it with warm light. The carpet had not been put down yet, and the children's feet made a hollow sound on the bare floor.

"Why, grandma," said Prudy, "it wouldn't be nice here a bit, only the room has got you in it!"

"Bless thy little heart, Prudence! It will be nice enough here to-morrow night. I wouldn't have thy mother touch it to-day."

"I've got a gamma to my house," said Katie, passing her little fingers over Mrs. Read's white kerchief; "but um don't have hang-fiss on um neck."

"Yes," said Mrs. Read, in reply to the children's question, "tell your mother I will take some coffee to-night, and she is very kind to inquire."

On the whole, the supper that evening was quite a success. Mr. Parlin had come home from business, tired and sad. It was not pleasant for him to turn his steps towards that part of the town: he missed his old home more than ever. But when he entered the strange house, the lonely look left his face; for there in the hall stood his wife and children, awaiting him with smiles of welcome.

"O, papa!" said Dotty, springing into his arms, while her sisters seized him by the coat-sleeves, "you ought to have a birthday to-night, we've got such a splendid supper!"

"Sthop!" cried Katie. "I's talking. Cake, and verjerves, and f'owers, and butter!"

"And Susy's been practising the 'Blue Violet's Carol,'" said Prudy.

"Yes, her packus, uncle Ed'ard!"

"And I'll read the paper to you if your eyes ache," went on Prudy; "and we are going to be just as happy, papa!"

"An' vindegar canny," struck in Katie.

"O, hush, now!" whispered Dotty, covering the child's mouth with her handkerchief.

The whole house was fragrant with flowers, and had such a festive appearance, that Mr. Parlin kept exclaiming, "Ah, indeed!" and stroking his beard. Prudy said she always knew when papa was pleased, for then he always "patted his whiskers."

The table was very attractive, and everybody had a fine appetite. After Mr. Parlin had drank a cup of delicious coffee, he no longer remembered that he was tired. He looked upon the merry group around him, and said to his wife,—

"I see, my dear, you are disposed to make the best of our misfortunes. But, after all, you are not quite as meek as one old lady I heard of once."

"Please tell it, if it's a story, papa," said the children.

"Not much of a story; only there were two old women who lived by themselves, and were so very poor that they had nothing in the world to eat but potatoes and salt. One day a friend went to see them, and when he sat down to their humble meal of roasted potatoes, he was moved with pity, and told them he was very sorry to see them so poor.

"Then one of the old ladies rolled up her eyes, and said, 'I was just a-thinkin', neighbor, that this meal is altogether too good for us, we're so unworthy! I only wish the potatoes was froze!'"

The children laughed.

"But I shouldn't like that old lady, though. I know how she looked: it was just this way," said Prudy, drawing down her mouth, and looking cross-eyed.

"She didn't want the potatoes frozed," added Dotty; "for if she did, she might have laid 'em out doors all night, and they'd have freezed as hard as a stick."

Grandma Read had a thought just then, though she did not express it. She was thinking what a contrast this cheerful family presented to another "burnt-out" family, who had this very day moved into a house across the street. The mother she had seen from the window, and she looked perfectly discouraged. The children were fretful, and it seemed as if they were all trying, with one accord, to see which could do most to make the new home disagreeable.

"I should say they freeze their potatoes," thought Mrs. Read.

She meant that, instead of trying to improve matters, they only made them worse.

After supper, just as the Parlins were sitting down for a quiet evening, the door-bell rang furiously, and shook for a minute afterwards, as if it were in an ague-fit. Who had come to break up the family harmony?

I will tell you in the next chapter.