Katie Clifford sat on the floor, in the sun, feeding her white mice. She had a tea-spoon and a cup of bread and milk in her hands. If she had been their own mother she could not have smiled down on the little creatures more sweetly.

"'Cause I spect they's hungry, and that's why I'm goin' to give 'em sumpin' to eat. Shut your moufs and open your eyes," said she, waving the tea-spoon, and spattering the bread and milk over their backs.

"Quee, quee," squeaked the little mice, very well pleased when a drop happened to go into their mouths.

"What are you doing there, Miss Topknot," said Horace: "O, I see; catching rats."

Flyaway frowned fearfully, and the tuft of hair atop of her head danced like a war-plume.

"I shouldn't think folks would call 'em names, Hollis, when they never did a thing to you. Nothing but clean white mouses!"

"Let's see; now I look at 'em, Topknot, they are white. And what's all this paper?"

"Bed-kilts."

"In-deed?"

"You knew it by-fore!"

"One, two, three; I thought the doctor gave you five. Where are they gone?"

"Well, there hasn't but two died; the rest'll live," said Fly, swinging one of them around by its tail, as if it had been a tame cherry.

Just then Grace came and stood in the parlor doorway.

"O, fie!" said she; "what work! Ma doesn't allow that cage in the parlor. You just carry it out, Fly Clifford."

Miss Thistledown Flyaway looked up at her sister shyly, out of the corners of her eyes. Grace was now a beautiful young lady of sixteen, and almost as tall as her mother. Flyaway adored her, but there was a growing doubt in her mind whether sister Grace had a right to use the tone of command.

"'Cause I spect she isn't my mamma."

"Why, Fly, you haven't started yet!"

"I didn't think 'twas best," responded the child, sulkily, fixing her eyes on the mice, who were dancing whirligigs round the wheel.

"Come here to your best friend, little Topknot," said Horace. "Let's take that cage into the green-house, and ask papa to keep it there, because the mice look like water-lilies on long stems."

Flyaway brightened at once. She knew water-lilies were lovely. Giving Grace a triumphant glance, she danced across the room, and put the cage in Horace's hands, with a smile of trusting love that thrilled his heart.

"Hollis laughs at my mouses, but he don't say, 'Put 'em away,' and, 'Put 'em away;' he says, 'Little gee-urls wants to see things as much as anybody else,'" thought she, gratefully.

"Horace," said Grace, with a curling lip, "that child is growing up just like you—fond of worms, and bugs, and all such disgusting things."

Horace smiled. No matter for the scorn in Grace's tone; it pleased him to be compared in any way with his precious little Flyaway.

"Topknot has a spark of sense," said he, leading her along to the green-house. "I'll bring her up not to scream at a spider."

"Now, young lady," said he, setting the cage on the shelf beside a camellia, and speaking in a low voice, though they were quite alone, "can you keep a secret?"

"Course I can; What is a secrid?"

"Why, it's something you musn't ever tell, Topknot, not to anybody that lives."

"Then I won't, cerdily,—not to mamma, nor papa, nor Gracie."

"Nor anybody else?"

"No; course not. Whobody else could I? O, 'cept Phibby. There, now, what's the name of it."

"The name of it is—a secret, and the secret is this—Sure you won't tell any single body, Topknot?"

"No; I said, whobody could I tell? O, 'cept Tinka! There now!"

"Well, the secret is this," said Horace, laying his forefingers together, and speaking very slowly, in order to prolong the immense delight he felt in watching the little one's eager face. "You know you've got an aunt Madge?"

"Yes; so've you, too."

"And she lives in the city of New York."

"Does she? When'd she go?"

"Why, she has always lived there; ever since she was married."

"O, yes; and uncle Gustus was married, too; they was both married. Is that all?"

"And she thinks you and I are 'cute chicks, and wants us to go and see her."

"Well, course she does; I knew that before," said Fly, turning away with indifference; "I did go with mamma."

"O, but she means now, Topknot; this very Christmas. She said it in a letter."

"Does she truly?" said Fly, beginning to look pleased. "But it can't be a secrid, though," added she, next moment, sadly, "'cause we can't go, Hollis."

"But I really think we shall go, Topknot; that is, if you don't spoil the whole by telling."

"O, I cerdily won't tell!" said Fly, fluttering all over with a sense of importance, like a kitten with its first mouse.

The breakfast bell rang; and, with many a word of warning, Horace led his little sister into the dining-room.

"Papa," said she, the moment she was established in her high chair, "I know sumpin'."

"O, Topknot!" cried Horace.

"I know Hollis has got his elbows on the table. There, now, did I tell?"

"Hu—sh, Topknot!"

There was a quiet moment while Mr. Clifford said grace.

"Hollis," whispered Katie immediately afterwards, "will I take my mouses?"

"'Sh, Topknot!"

"What's going on there between you and Horace?" laughed Grace.

"A secrid," said Fly, nipping her little lips together. "You won't get me to tell."

"Horace," exclaimed Mrs. Clifford, "you haven't—"

"Why, mother, I thought it was all settled, and wouldn't do any harm; and it pleases her so!"

"Well, my son, you've made a hard day's work for me," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling behind her coffee-cup, as eager little Katie swayed back and forth in her high chair.

"You won't get me to tell, Gracie Clifford. She don't want nobody but Hollis and me; she thinks we're very 'cute."

"Who? O, Aunt Louise, probably."

"No, aunt Louise never! It's the auntie that lives to New York."

"Sh, Topknot!"

"Well, I didn't tell, Hollis Clifford!"

"So you didn't," said Grace. "But wouldn't it be nice if somebody should ask you to go somewhere to spend Christmas?"

"Well, there is!"

"O, Topknot," cried Horace, in mock distress, "you said you could keep a secret."

Flyaway looked frightened.

"What'd I do?" cried she; "I didn't tell nuffin 'bout the letter!"

This last speech set everybody to laughing; and the little tell-tale looked around from one to another with a face full of innocent wonder. They couldn't be laughing at her!

"I can keep secrids," said she, with dignity. "It was what I was a-doin'."

"It is your brother Horace who cannot be trusted to keep secrets," said Mrs. Clifford, taking a letter from her pocket. "Hear, now, what your Aunt Madge has written: 'Will you lend me your children for the holidays, Maria? I want all three; at any rate, two.'"

"That's me," cried Flyaway, tipping over her white coffee; "'tenny rate two,' means me."

"Don't interrupt me, dear. 'Brother Edward has promised me Prudy and Dotty Dimple. They may have a Santa Claus, or whatever they like. I shall devote myself to making them happy, and I am sure there are plenty of things in New York to amuse them. Horace must come without fail; for the little girl-cousins always depend so much upon him.'"

A smile rose to Horace's mouth; but he rubbed it off with his napkin. It was his boast that he was above being flattered.

"But why not have Grace go, too, to keep them steady?" said Mr. Clifford, bluntly.

Horace applied himself to his buckwheat cakes in silence, and looked rather gloomy.

"Why, I suppose, Henry, it would hardly be safe to send Grace, on account of her cough."

"I'm so sorry you asked Dr. De Bruler a word about it, mamma; but I suppose I must submit," said Grace, with a face as cloudy as Horace's.

"Horace, my son, do you really feel equal to the task of taking this tuft of feathers to New York?"

"I don't know why not, father; I'm willing to try."

"Horace has good courage," said Grace, shaking her auburn curls like so many exclamation points. "I never could! I never would! I'd as soon have the care of a flying squirrel!"

"Hollis never called me a squirl," said Fly, demurely. "I've got two brothers, and one of 'em is an angel, and the other isn't; but Hollis is 'most as good as the one up in the sky."

"Well, my son," remarked Mr. Clifford, after a pause, "if your mother gives her consent, I suppose I shall give mine; but it does not look clear to me yet. One thing is certain, Horace; if you do undertake this journey, you must live on the watch: you must sleep with both eyes open. Don't trust the child out of your sight—not for a moment. Don't even let go her hand on the street."

"I do believe Horace will be as careful as either you or I, Henry, or I certainly wouldn't trust him with our last little darling," said Mrs. Clifford.

His mother's words dropped like balm upon Horace's wounded spirit. He looked up, and felt himself a man again.