Flyaway was very much sleepier than either of her cousins, and really did not know where she was, or what she was doing. Lonnie Adams, a boy of Horace's age, tried to interest her. He made believe the old cat was a sheep, killed her with an iron spoon, and hung her up by the hind legs for mutton, all which Pussy bore like a lamb, for she had been killed a great many times, and was used to it. But it did not please Flyaway; neither did aunt Martha's collection of shells and pictures call forth a single smile. There was a beautiful clock in the parlor, and the pendulum was in the form of a little boy swinging; but Flyaway would not have cared if it had been a gallows, and the boy hanging there dead.

Uncle John took her on his knee, asked her what her name was, where she lived, and whom she loved best; but she only answered she "didn't know." She might have been Daniel in the lions' den, or Joseph in the pit, for all the difference to her.

"How very singular!" said aunt Martha. "I wish her mother would come. Do feel her pulse, John, and see if it is fever."

"Nothing of the kind," said uncle John, as the little one's head dropped on his shoulder. "Overcome by the heat; that's all. I'll just lay her down on the sofa."

When Mrs. Clifford came, she was surprised to find the child fast asleep. She would not have her wakened for dinner; so Flyaway missed her "secretary." But when it was three o'clock, and she still slept, Mrs. Clifford feared something was wrong, and decided to take her home. Uncle John had "Lightning Dodger" harnessed, and brought around to the door.

"Wake up, little daughter," said Mrs. Clifford; "we are going home now."

Flyaway looked around vacantly, her eyes as heavy as drenched violets.

"You must come again, and stay longer," said aunt Martha; "it is hardly polite not to let little girls have their dinners—do you think it is?"

"Yes 'm," replied Flyaway, faintly. She did not understand a word any one said; it all sounded as indistinct as the roaring of a sea-shell. By the time she was lifted into her mother's arms in the carriage, she was nodding again. When they reached home she scarcely spoke, but, dropping upon the sofa, went on with her dreams. It was odd for Flyaway to take a nap in the daytime, and such a long one as this!

"It must be a very warm day," said Mrs. Parlin, "for Prudy and Dotty have been asleep too."

"Where did they go after they sold the rags?" asked Mrs. Clifford; "they all look pale."

"To a photograph saloon. Here are the tin-types they brought home to me," replied grandma, producing them from her pocket, with a gratified smile.

"Very good, mother—don't you think so? I would be glad to have as truthful a likeness of our little Katie; but she must be taken asleep. I wonder, by the way, if there wasn't something in the air of the saloon which made the children all so languid?"

"Why, yes, Maria; very likely it was the ether. Now you speak of it, I am confident it must have been the ether."

"I knew just such an instance before," said Mrs. Clifford; "and that is why I happened to think of it now."

About four o'clock Flyaway came to her senses.

"Where's the wheelbarrel?" said she, rubbing her eyes.

"O, Horace came and took it," said Dotty. "Hasn't this been the queerest day!"

"You said you's goin' to take me to aunt Marfie's; why didn't you?"

"O, we did; we took you, you know."

"Dotty Dimpul, I shouldn't think you'd make any believe."

"I'm not 'making any believe'—am I, Prudy?"

"No, Fly, she isn't. We pulled you along,—don't you remember?—and you hung back, and said, 'I am so tired.'"

"I don't 'member," said Flyaway, slowly and sadly. "I shouldn't think you'd make any believe, Prudy."

"We'll ask your mamma, then; she tells the truth. Aunt 'Riah, didn't we take Flyaway to aunt Martha's this morning, and didn't you go there too?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Clifford; "but it wasn't much of a visit,—was it, darling!—when you slept most of the time, and didn't have a mouthful of dinner?"

Flyaway sighed heavily, and looked at her mother. "O, mamma! mamma!"

"What is it, dear?"

"O, mamma," repeated she, sorrowfully, "why did you say those words?"

"What words, darling?"

"Those naughty, naughty words, mamma." Flyaway's gentle eyes were afloat. She crossed the room, and knelt by Mrs. Clifford's chair, looking up at her with an expression of anguish.

"That man, he wasn't in the lions' den, that prayed so long and so loud, mamma."

"Well, dear."

"He telled a wrong story to me, mamma."

"My darling baby," said Mrs. Clifford, catching Flyaway in her arms, "do you think your own dear mother is telling you a wrong story this minute?"

"'Cause, 'cause, mamma, I didn't go to aunt Marfie's!"

"Yes, you did, my precious daughter; but you were asleep and dreaming. We brought you home in the carriage, and you didn't know it. Can't you believe it because I say so?"

Flyaway made no reply except to curl her head under Mrs. Clifford's arm, like a frightened chicken under its mother's wing. Mrs. Clifford looked troubled. She was afraid the little one could not be made to understand it. Horace came to her aid.

"Hold up your head, little Topknot, and hear brother talk. Once there were three little girls, and they all travelled round with a wheelbarrow. By and by they came to a man's house on wheels."

"Yes," said Flyaway, starting up; "I 'member."

"And the wee girl, with dove's eyes—"

"O, O, that's me!"

"She couldn't keep still, and couldn't get any picture."

"No, tin-tybe; 'cause—'cause—"

"And all the while there was something in the man's house they kept breathing into their noses, and it made them grow sleepy."

"Just so?" asked Flyaway, sniffing.

"Yes; and by and by the little one with dove's eyes was as stupid as that woman you saw lying down in the street with the pig looking at her."

"Me? Was I a drunken?" said Flyaway, in a subdued tone.

"O, no," put in Dotty; "it wasn't whiskey, it was either; and I didn't know much more than you did, Fly Clifford. That was why I lost your money, Prudy; I just about know it was."

Flyaway began to understand. The look of fear and distrust went out of her eyes, and she threw her arms round her mother's neck, kissing her again and again.

"'Haps I did go to aunt Marfie's, mamma; 'haps I was asleep!"

"That's right, Miss Topknot," cried Horace; "now your brother'll carry you pickaback."

A little while afterward Mrs. Clifford began a letter to her husband.

"I am going to tell papa about his little girl—that she is very well."

"O, no, you needn't, mamma," said Flyaway, laughing; "papa knows it. I was well at home."

"What shall I tell him, then?"

Flyaway thought a moment.

"Tell him all the folks doesn't tell lies," said she, earnestly; "only but the naughty folks tells lies."

So that was settled; and Flyaway decided to write off the whole story, and send to her father—a mixture of little sharp zigzags, curves, and dots. When Horace asked her what these meant, she said "she couldn't 'member now; but papa would know."

There was another matter which troubled grandma Parlin somewhat. Dotty had gone to the store, after dinner, with two ten-cent pieces in her porte-monnaie. She had bought for herself some jujube paste, but in returning had lost the other dime.

"Grandma, do you think that is fair?" said Prudy. "She has lost my money, but she doesn't care at all; only laughs. I was going to put it with some more I had, and buy mother a collar."

"No, it is not right," replied grandma. "I will talk with her, and try to make her willing to give you some of hers in return."

Ah, grandma Parlin, you little knew what you were undertaking when you called Dotty Dimple into the back parlor next morning, and began to talk about that money! Children's minds are strange things. They are like bottles with very small necks; and when you pour in an idea, you must pour very slowly, a drop at a time, or it all runs over. Dotty did not know much more about money than Flyaway.

"My child," said her grandmother, "it seems you have lost something which belonged to Prudy."

Dotty looked up carelessly from the picture of a rose she held in her hand, which she meant to adorn with yellow paint.

"O, yes 'm; you mean that money."

"There are several things you don't know, Dotty; and one is, that you have no right to lose other people's things."

"No 'm."

"The money you dropped out of your porte-monnaie, yesterday, was Prudy's, not yours; and what are you going to do about it?"

"Let me see; my mother'll come to-morrow; I'll ask her to give me some more."

"But is that right? Dotty lost the money; must not Dotty be the one to give it back?"

"O, grandma, I can't find it! The wind blew it away, or a horse stepped on it. I can't find it, certainly."

"No; but you have money of your own. You can give some of that to Prudy."

"Why-ee!" moaned Dotty. "Prudy's got ever so much. O, grandma, she has; and my box is so empty it can't but just jingle."

"But, my dear, that has nothing to do with the case. If Prudy has a great deal of money, you have no right to lose any of it. Don't you think you ought to give it back?"

"O, no, grandma—I don't; because she doesn't need it! I wish she'd give me ten cents, for I do need it; I haven't but a tinty, tonty mite."

Here Dotty threw herself on the sofa, the picture of despair. Grandma was perplexed. Had she been pouring ideas into Dotty's mind too fast? What should she say next?

"My dear little girl, suppose Prudy should lose some of your money—what then?"

"I shouldn't like it at all, grandma. Don't let her go to my box—will you?"

"Selfish little girl!" said grandma, looking keenly at Dotty's troubled face. "You would expect Prudy to return every cent, if she were in your place."

"Because—because—grandma—"

"Yes; and when I explain your duty to you, you don't understand me. You would understand if you were not so selfish!"

Dotty winced.

"Don't come to me again, and complain of Jennie Vance."

Dotty could not meet her grandmother's searching gaze: it seemed to cut into her heart like a sharp blade.

"Am I as bad as Jennie Vance? Yes, just us bad; and grandma knows it. But then," said she aloud, though very faintly, "Prudy needn't have put it in my porte-monnaie; she might have known I'd lose it."

"Dotty, I am not going to say any more about it now. You may think it over to-day, and decide for yourself whether you are following the Golden Rule. Or, if you choose, you may wait and talk with your mother."

"Yes 'm." Dotty was glad to escape into the kitchen.