Little Prudy's Sister Susy

ANNIE LOVEJOY.

But the day was not over yet. The bright sun and blue sky were doing what they could to make a cheerful time of it, but it seemed as if Susy fell more deeply into trouble, as the hours passed on.

There are such days in everybody's life, when it rains small vexations from morning till night, and when all we can do is to hope for better things to-morrow.

It was Wednesday; and in the afternoon, Flossy Eastman came over with a new game, and while the little girls, Flossy, Susy and Prudy were playing it, and trying their best to keep Dotty Dimple's prying fingers and long curls out of the way, in came Miss Annie Lovejoy.

This was a little neighbor, who, as the children sometimes privately declared, was "always 'round." Mrs. Parlin had her own private doubts about the advantages to be derived from her friendship, and had sometimes gone so far as to send her home, when she seemed more than usually in the way.

Annie's mother lived next door, but all Mrs. Parlin knew of her, was what she could see and hear from her own windows; and that little was not very agreeable. She saw that Mrs. Love joy dressed in gaudy colors, and loaded herself with jewelry; and she could hear her scold her servants and children with a loud, shrill voice.

The two ladies had never exchanged calls; but Annie, it seemed, had few playmates, and she clung to Susy with such a show of affection, that Mrs. Parlin could not forbid her visits, although she watched her closely; anxious, as a careful mother should be, to make sure she was a proper companion for her little daughter. So far she had never known her to say or do anything morally wrong, though her manners were not exactly those of a well-bred little girl.

This afternoon, when the new game was broken up by the entrance of Annie, the children began the play of housekeeping, because Prudy could join in it. Susy found she enjoyed any amusement much more when it pleased the little invalid.

"I will be the lady of the house," said Annie, promptly, "because I have rings on my fingers, and a coral necklace. My name is Mrs. Piper. Prudy,—no, Rosy,—you shall be Mrs. Shotwell, come a-visiting me; because you can't do anything else. We'll make believe you've lost your husband in the wars. I know a Mrs. Shotwell, and she is always taking-on, and saying, 'My poor dear husband,' under her handkerchief; just this way."

The children laughed at the nasal twang which Annie gave to the words, and Prudy imitated it to perfection, not knowing it was wrong.

"Well, what shall I be?" said Susy, not very well pleased that the first characters had been taken already.

"O, you shall be a hired girl, and wear a handkerchief on your head, just as our girl does; and you must be a little deaf, and keep saying, 'What, ma'am?' when I speak to you."

"And I," said Florence, "will be Mr. Peter Piper, the head of the family."

"Yes," returned Annie, "you can put on a waterproof cloak, and you will make quite a good-looking husband; but I shall be the head of the family myself, and have things about as I please!"

"Well, there," cried Flossy, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her cloak, "I don't know about that; I don't think it's very polite for you to treat your husband in that way."

Flossy wanted to have the control of family matters herself.

"But I believe in 'Woman's Rights,'" said Annie, with a toss of the head, "and if there's anything I despise, it is a man meddling about the house."

Here little Dotty began to cause a disturbance, by sticking a fruit-knife into the edges of the "what-not," and making a whirring noise.

"I wouldn't do so, Dotty," said Susy, going up to her; "it troubles us; and, besides, I'm afraid it will break the knife."

"I don't allow my hired girl to interfere with my children," said Annie, speaking up in the character of Mrs. Piper; "I am mistress of the house, I'd have you to know! There, little daughter, they shan't plague her; she shall keep on doing mischief; so she shall!"

Dotty needed no coaxing to keep on doing mischief, but hit the musical knife harder than ever, giving it a dizzy motion, like the clapper in a mill.

Prudy was quite annoyed by the sound, but did not really know whether to be nervous or not, and concluded to express her vexation in groans: the groans she was giving in memory of the departed Mr. Shotwell, who had died of a "cannon bullet."

"My good Mrs. Shotwell," said Mrs. Piper, trying to "make conversation," "I think I have got something in my eye: will you please tell me how it looks?"

"O," said Prudy, peeping into it, "your eye looks very well, ma'am; don't you 'xcuse it; it looks well enough for me."

"Ahem!" said Mrs. Piper, laughing, and settling her head-dress, which was Susy's red scarf: "are your feet warm, Mrs. Shotwell?"

"Thank you, ma'am," replied Prudy, "I don't feel 'em cold. O, dear, if your husband was all deaded up, I guess you'd cry, Mrs. Piper."

Susy and Flossy looked at each other, and smiled. They thought Prudy seemed more like herself than they had known her for a long time.

"You must go right out of the parlor, Betsey," said Mrs. Piper, flourishing the poker; "I mean you, Susy—the parlor isn't any place for hired girls."

"Ma'am?" said Susy, inclining her head to one side, in order to hear better.

"O, dear! the plague of having a deaf girl!" moaned Mrs. Piper. "You don't know how trying it is, Mrs. Shotwell! That hired girl, Betsey, hears with her elbows, Mrs. Shotwell; I verily believe she does!"

"O, no, ma'am," replied Prudy; "I guess she doesn't hear with her elbows, does she? If she heard with her elbows, she wouldn't have to ask you over again!"

This queer little speech set Mr. Piper and his wife, and their servant, all to laughing, and Betsey looked at her elbows, to see if they were in the right place.

"Will you please, ma'am," said Prudy, "ask Betsey to hot a flatiron? I've cried my handkerchief all up!"

"Yes; go right out, Betsey, and hot a flatiron," said Mrs. Piper, very hospitably. "Go out, this instant, and build a fire, Betsey."

"Yes, go right out, Betsey," echoed Mr. Piper, who could find nothing better to do than to repeat his wife's words; for, in spite of himself, she did appear to be the "head of the family."

"It was my darlin' husband's handkerchief," sobbed Prudy.

"Rather a small one for a man," said Mr. Piper, laughing.

"Well," replied Prudy, rather quick for a thought, "my husband had a very small nose!"

Mrs. Piper tried to make more "conversation."

"O, Mrs. Shotwell, you ought to be exceeding thankful you're a widow, and don't keep house! I think my hired girls will carry down my gray hairs to the grave! The last one I had was Irish, and very Catholic."

Prudy groaned for sympathy, and wiped her eyes on that corner of her handkerchief which was supposed to be not quite "cried up."

"Yes, indeed, it was awful," continued Mrs. Piper; "for she wasalways going to masses and mass-meetings; and there couldn't anybody die but they must be 'waked,' you know."

"Why, I didn't know they could be waked up when they was dead," said Prudy, opening her eyes.

"O, but they only make believe you can wake 'em," said Mrs. Piper; "of course it isn't true! For my part, I don't believe a word an Irish girl says, any way."

"Hush, my child," she continued, turning to Dotty, who was now sharpening the silver knife on the edges of the iron grate. "Betsey, why in the world don't you see to that baby? I believe you are losing your mind!"

"That makes me think," said Prudy, suddenly breaking in with a new idea; "what do you s'pose the reason is folks can't be waked up? What makes 'em stay in heaven all the days, and nights, and years, and never come down here to see anybody, not a minute?"

"What an idea!" said Annie. "I'm sure I don't know."

"Well, I've been a thinkin'," said Prudy, answering her own question, "that when God has sended 'em up to the sky, they like to stay up there the best. It's a nicer place, a great deal nicer place, up to God's house."

"O, yes, of course," replied Annie, "but our play—"

"I've been a thinkin'," continued Prudy, "that when I go up to God's house, I shan't wear the splint. I can run all over the house, and he'll be willing I should go up stairs, and down cellar, you know."

Prudy sighed. Sometimes she almost longed for "God's house."

"Well, let's go on with our play," said Annie, impatiently. "It's most supper-time, Mrs. Shotwell. Come in, Betsey."

"Ma'am?" said Betsey, appearing at the door, and turning up one ear, very much as if it were a dipper, in which she expected to catch the words which dropped from the lips of her mistress. "Betsey, have you attended to your sister—to my little child, I mean? Then go out and make some sassafras cakes, and some eel-pie, and some squirrel-soup; and set the table in five minutes: do you hear?"

"Ma'am?" said the deaf servant; 'what did you say about ginger-bread?"

Susy did not like her part of the game; but she played it as well as she could, and let Annie manage everything, because that was what pleased Annie.

"O, how stupid Betsey is!" said Mr. Piper, coming to the aid of his wife. "Mrs. Piper says eel-jumbles, and sassafras-pie, and pound-cake; all made in five minutes!"

Here everybody laughed, and Prudy, suddenly remembering her part, sighed, and said,—

"O, my darlin' husband used to like jumble-pie! I've forgot to cry for ever so long!"

Susy began to set the table, and went into the nursery for some cake and cookies, which were kept in an old tin chest, on purpose for this play of housekeeping, which had now been carried on regularly every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, for some time.

Susy opened the cake-chest, and found nothing in it but a few dry cookies: the fruit-cake was all gone. Who could have eaten it? Not Flossy, for she had a singular dislike for raisins and currants, and never so much as tasted fruit-cake. Not Prudy, for the poor little thing had grown so lame by this time, that she was unable to bear her weight on her feet, much less to walk into the nursery. Dotty could not be the thief. Her baby-conscience was rather tough and elastic, and I suppose she would have felt no more scruples about nibbling nice things, than an unprincipled little mouse.

But, then Dotty couldn't reach the cake-chest; so she was certainly innocent.

Then Susy remembered in a moment that it was Annie: Annie had run into the house morning and night, and had often said, "I'm right hungry. I'm going to steal a piece of our cake!"

So it seemed that Annie had eaten it all. Susy ran back to Prudy's sitting-room, where her little guests were seated, and said, trying not to laugh,—

"Please, ma'am, I just made some eel-jumbles and things, and a dog came in and stole them."

"Very well, Betsey," said Mrs. Piper, serenely; "make some more."

"Yes, make some more," echoed Mr. Piper; and added, "chain up that dog."

"But real honest true," said Susy, "the fruit-cake is all gone out of the chest. You ate it up, you know, Annie; but it's no matter: we'll cut up some cookies, or, may be, mother'll let us have some oyster-crackers."

"I ate up the cake!" cried Annie; "It's no such a thing; I never touched it!" Her face flushed as she spoke.

"O, but you did," persisted Susy; "I suppose you've forgotten! You went to the cake-chest this morning, and last night, and yesterday noon, and ever so many more times."

Annie was too angry to speak.

"But it's just as well," added Susy, politely; "you could have it as well as not, and perfectly welcome!"

"What are you talking about?" cried Annie, indignantly; for she thought she saw a look of surprise and contempt on Flossy's face, and fancied that Flossy despised her because she had a weakness for fruit-cake.

"I wonder if you take me for a pig, Susy Parlin! I heard what your mother said about that cake! She said it was too dry for her company, but it was too rich for little girls, and we must only eat a teeny speck at a time. I told my mamma, and she laughed, to think such mean dried-up cake was too rich for little girls!"

Susy felt her temper rising, but her desire to be polite did not desert her.

"It was rich, nice cake, Annie; but mother said the slices had been cut a great while, and it was drying up. Let's not talk any more about it."

"O, but I shall talk more about it," cried Annie, still more irritated; "you keep hinting that I tell wrong stories and steal cake; yes, you do! and then you ain't willing to let me speak!"

All this sounded like righteous indignation, but was only anger. Annie was entirely in the wrong, and knew it; therefore she lost her temper.

Susy had an unusual amount of self-control at this time, merely because she had the truth on her side. But her dignified composure only vexed Annie the more.

"I won't stay here to be imposed upon, and told that I'm a liar and a thief; so I won't! I'll go right home this very minute, and tell my mother just how you treat your company!"

And, in spite of all Susy could say, Annie threw on her hood and cloak, and flounced out of the room; forgetting, in her wrath, to take off Susy's red scarf, which was still festooned about her head.

"Well, I'm glad she's gone," said Flossy, coolly, as the door closed with a slam. "She's a bold thing, and my mother wouldn't like me to play with her, if she knew how she acts! She said 'victuals' for food, and that isn't elegant, mother says. What right had she to set up and say she'd be Mrs. Piper? So forward!"

After all, this was the grievous part of the whole to Flossy,—that she had to take an inferior part in the play.

"But I'm sorry she's gone," said Susy, uneasily. "I don't like to have her go and tell that I wasn't polite."

"You was polite," chimed in little Prudy, from the sofa; "a great deal politer'n she was! I wouldn't care, if I would be you, Susy. I don't wish Annie was dead, but I wish she was a duck a-sailin' on the water!"

The children went back to the game they had been playing before Annie came; but the interest was quite gone. Their quick-tempered little guest had been a "kill-joy" in spite of her name.

But the afternoon was not over yet. What happened next, I will tell you in another chapter.

MORAL COURAGE.

Annie Lovejoy had not been gone fifteen minutes, when there was a sharp ringing of Mrs. Parlin's doorbell, and a little boy gave Norah the red scarf of Susy's, and a note for Mrs. Parlin.

Norah suspected they both came from Mrs. Lovejoy, and she could see that lady from the opposite window, looking toward the house with a very defiant expression.

Mrs. Parlin opened the note with some surprise, for she had been engaged with visitors in the parlor, and did not know what had been going on up stairs.

Whatever Mrs. Lovejoy's other accomplishments might be, she could not write very elegantly. The ink was hardly dry, and the words were badly blotted, as well as incorrectly spelled.

"Mrs. Parlin.

"Madam: If my own doughter is a theif and a lier, I beg to be informed. She has no knowlidg of the cake, whitch was so dryed up, a begar woold not touch it. Will Miss Susan Parlin come over here, and take back her words?

"SERENA LOVEJOY."

Mrs. Parlin was at a loss to understand this, for she had quite forgotten the fact, that the children had any cake to use at their play of housekeeping. She supposed that Susy must have accused Annie of prying into the china-closet, where the cakes and jellies were kept. She sent for Susy at once.

"My daughter," said she, in her usual quiet tones, "did you ever have any reason to suppose that Annie Lovejoy went about meddling with our things, and peeping into the closets?"

"Why, no, mother," replied Susy, much surprised; "she never saw the closets, that I know of. Why, mother, what do you mean?"

"Never ate cake, did she, without leave?"

"O, now I know what you mean, mother! Yes'm, she ate some of that fruit-cake you gave us to play with; and when I told her of it, she got angry, and said she was going right home, and would tell her mother how I treated my company; but I don't see how you found that out!"

"Never mind yet how I found it out, my dear. I want to know if you are sure that Annie ate the cake?"

"Yes, mother: just as certain sure as I can be! You know Dotty can't reach that high shelf in the nursery-closet, and I can't, without getting into a chair; and Prudy can't walk a step; and Flossy despises cake."

"But," said Mrs. Parlin, smiling, "I don't see that you have proved Annie to be the guilty one."

"Guilty? O, I don't know as she is guilty, mamma; but she ate the cake! She ate it right before my face and eyes; but I told her it was just as well, she was perfectly welcome, and tried to be as polite as if she was a grown-up lady, mother. But, O, dear, it didn't make a speck of difference how much I said; for the more I said, the more angry she grew, and I couldn't make her believe I didn't think she was a thief and a liar! Only think, a thief and a liar! But I never said those words at all, mother!"

"Very well, my dear; I am sure you did not. It is a great comfort to me, Susy, that I can always rely on your word. You have done nothing wrong, and need not be unhappy; but Mrs. Lovejoy sends for you to go over and tell her just what you mean about the cake; are you willing to go?"

Susy was not willing; indeed, she was very much frightened, and begged her mother to excuse her in some way to Mrs. Lovejoy, or, if that would not do, to go herself and explain the matter for her.

But, as it was Susy's own affair, Mrs. Parlin wished to have as little to do with it as possible. Besides, she considered it a good opportunity to teach Susy a lesson in moral courage.

Susy started very reluctantly.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Lovejoy will scold real sharp," said she. " What shall I do? O, mother, I didn't see Annie eat all the cake; I didn't watch. How do I know but she gave some crumbs to the cat? Can't I—can't I say, I guess the cat ate it?"

"Susy!" said Mrs. Parlin, sternly, "are you more afraid of displeasing Mrs. Lovejoy than you are of displeasing God? All that is required of you is the simple truth. Merely say to Annie's mother just what you have said to me; that you saw Annie eating cake several times, though there was no harm in it, and you did not call her either a thief or a liar. Speak respectfully, but decidedly; and when you have said all that is necessary, leave her politely, and come home."

Susy called up all her courage when she entered Mrs. Lovejoy's house, and saw that lady sitting very erect on a sofa, with a bleak face, which looked somehow as if a north-east wind had blown over it, and frozen it.

"Well, little girl," said she, without waiting for ceremony, "so you call my Annie all the bad names you can think of, it seems. Is that the way you are brought up?"

"I didn't call her names, ma'am; she ate the cake, but I was willing," replied Susy, calmly and respectfully, though she trembled from head to foot. There was one thought which sustained Susy; she was telling the truth, and that was just what God wanted her to do.

"Well," said Mrs. Lovejoy, "I must say you're a dignified little piece! Do you know you've done the same thing as to tell me I lie?"

This was just the way Annie had spoken; warping innocent words, and making them the occasion of a quarrel.

Susy could think of nothing which seemed exactly right to say to Mrs. Lovejoy in reply; so she wisely held her peace.

"Yes, miss, you've insulted my child, and, as if that were not enough, you come over here, deliberately, and insult me, in my own house!"

Tears sprang to Susy's eyes, but she resolutely crushed them back. There was, in her childish mind, a certain sense of self-respect, which made her unwilling to cry in the presence of such a person as Mrs. Lovejoy. She felt instinctively that the woman was not a lady. Susy was too young to reason about the matter; but she was quite sure her own mother was a model of good manners; and never, never had she known her mother to raise her voice to such a high key, or speak such angry words!

Mrs. Lovejoy said a great many things which were both severe and unjust; but Susy managed to keep up a respectful manner, as her mother had directed. Mrs. Lovejoy was disappointed. She had expected Susy would quail before her presence and make the most humble confessions.

"I always knew," cried Mrs. Lovejoy, becoming more and more exasperated,—"I always knew Mrs. Parlin held her head pretty high! She is a proud, stuck-up woman, your mother is; she has taught you to look down on my little girl! O, yes, I understand the whole story! You're a beautiful family for neighbors!"

Poor Susy was fairly bewildered.

"Now you may go home as straight as you can go! But remember one thing: never, while we live in this city, shall my daughter Annie darken your doors again!"

Susy walked home with downcast head and overflowing eyes. Her heart was very heavy, for she felt she had been disgraced for life, and could never be respected any more. Here was a trial so terrible that it caused the death of little Dandy to seem almost a trifle by comparison.

It was strange, Susy thought, how people could live through such severe troubles as had fallen to her lot to-day. She was a little girl of quick and sensitive feelings, and a sharp word always wounded her more than a blow. How that angry woman had talked about her mother!

Susy decided, upon the whole, that this was the sting—this was the "pin in the lash," which had hurt her more than the lash. How dared Mrs. Lovejoy say a word about her own mother, who was certainly the best woman that ever lived, always excepting the good people in the Bible!

By the time she entered the house, her indignation had risen like a blaze, and burned away all her tears. But should she tell her mother what Mrs. Lovejoy had said about her ownself, about her being "stuck up," and holding her head pretty high? Susy could not decide whether she ought to tell her, and risk the danger of almost breaking her heart! But before she had time to decide, she had poured out the whole story in a torrent.

Strange to say, Mrs. Parlin listened with perfect calmness, and even said, when Susy had finished,—

"Very well, my dear; now you may go and hang up your hood and cloak."

"But, mother," said Susy, rushing up stairs again, quite out of breath, "now I've taken care of my things; but did you understand what I said, mother? Annie will never come into this house, never again! Her mother forbids it!"

"That is quite fortunate for me, Susy, as it saves me the trouble of forbidding it myself!"

"Why, mother, you wouldn't do such a thing as that! Why, mother, I never heard of your doing such a thing in my life!"

"I should regret the necessity very much, my child; but wouldn't it be better, on the whole, to have a little moral courage, and put an end to all intercourse between the two families, than to live in a constant broil?"

"Why, yes, mother, I suppose so."

Susy was beginning to feel more composed. She saw that her mother understood the whole story, yet her heart was far from being broken!

"What is moral courage, mother?"

"The courage to do right."

"Did I have moral courage when I told Mrs. Lovejoy the truth?"

"Yes, dear. It was hard for you, wasn't it? If it had been easy, there would have been no moral courage about it."

"I am glad I had moral courage!" said Susy with animation. "I knew I did something right, but I didn't know what you called it."

"Now," continued Mrs. Parlin, "I have this very day been talking with a lady, who once lived next door to Mrs. Lovejoy; and she tells me enough about her to convince me that she is not a person I wish for a neighbor. And I have heard enough about Annie, too, to feel very sure she is not a safe companion for my little daughter."

"But, mother," said Susy, "you are not—you don't feel 'stuck up' above Mrs. Lovejoy?"

Mrs. Parlin smiled.

"That is not a very proper expression, Susy; but I think I do not feel stuck-up above her in the least. I am only anxious that my little daughter may not be injured by bad examples. I don't know what sort of a little girl Annie might be with proper influences, but—"

"Now, mamma, I don't want to say anything improper," said Susy, earnestly; "but wouldn't it be the piousest for me to play with Annie, and try to make her go to Sabbath school, and be better?"

Mrs. Parlin did not answer at once. She was thinking of what she had said to Susy about people who are "home missionaries," and do a great deal of good by a beautiful example.

"If you were older, dear, it would be quite different. But, instead of improving Annie, who is a self-willed child, I fear you would only grow worse yourself. She is bold, and you are rather timid. She wants to lead, and not to follow. I fear she will set you bad examples."

"I didn't know, mamma; but I thought I was almost old enough to set my own examples! I'm the oldest of the family."

Susy said no more about becoming a home-missionary to Annie; for, although she could not quite see the force of her mother's reasoning, she believed her mother was always right.

"But what does she mean by calling me timid? She has blamed me a great deal for being bold."

Yes, bold Susy certainly was, when there was a fence to climb, a pony to ride, or a storm to be faced; but she was, nevertheless, a little faint-hearted when people laughed at her. But Susy was learning every day, and this time it had been a lesson in moral courage. She did not fully understand her mother, however, as you will see by and by.

RUTHIE TURNER.

The next morning, Susy woke with a faint recollection that something unpleasant had occurred, though she could not at first remember what it was.

"But I didn't do anything wrong," was her second thought. "Now, after I say my prayers, the next thing I'll feed—O, Dandy is dead!"

"See here, Susy," said Percy, coming into the dining-room, just after breakfast; "did you ever see this cage before?"

"Now, Percy! When you know I want it out of my sight!"

Then, in the next breath, "Why, Percy Eastman, if here isn't your beautiful mocking-bird in the cage!"

"Yes, Susy; and if you'll keep him, and be good to him, you'll do me a great favor."

It was a long while before Susy could be persuaded that this rare bird was to be her "ownest own." It was a wonderfully gifted little creature. Susy could but own that he was just as good as a canary, only a great deal better. "The greater included the less." He had as sweet a voice, and a vast deal more compass. His powers of mimicry were very amusing to poor little Prudy, who was never tired of hearing him mew like a kitten, quack like a duck, or whistle like a schoolboy.

Susy was still more delighted than Prudy. It was so comforting, too, to know that she was doing Percy "a great favor," by accepting his beautiful present. She wondered in her own mind how he could be tired of such an interesting pet, and asked her to take it, just to get rid of it!

About this time, Mr. Parlin bought for Prudy a little armed-chair, which rolled about the floor on wheels. This Prudy herself could propel with only the outlay of a very little strength; but there were days when she did not care to sit in it at all. Prudy seemed to grow worse. The doctor was hopeful, very hopeful; but Mrs. Parlin was not.

Prudy's dimpled hands had grown so thin, that you could trace the winding path of every blue vein quite distinctly. Her eyes were large and mournful, and seemed to be always asking for pity. She grew quiet and patient—"painfully patient," her father said. Indeed, Mr. Parlin, as well as his wife, feared the little sufferer was ripening for heaven.

"Mamma," said she, one day, "mamma, you never snip my fingers any nowadays do you? When I'm just as naughty, you never snip my fingers!"

Mrs. Parlin turned her face away. There were tears in her eyes, and she did not like to look at those little white fingers, which she was almost afraid would never have the natural, childish naughtiness in them any more.

"I think sick and patient little girls don't need punishing," said she, after a while. "Do you remember how you used to think I snipped your hands to 'get the naughty out?' You thought the naughty was all in your little hands!"

"But it wasn't, mamma," said Prudy, slowly and solemnly. "I know where it was: it was in my heart."

"Who can take the naughty out of our hearts, dear? Do you ever think?"

"Our Father in heaven. No one else can. He knows how to snip our hearts, and get the naughty out. Sometimes he sends the earache and the toothache to Susy, and the—the—lameness to me. O, he has a great many ways of snipping!"

Prudy was showing the angel-side of her nature now. Suffering was "making her perfect." She had a firm belief that God knew all about it, and that somehow or other it was "all right." Her mother took a great deal of pains to teach her this. She knew that no one can bear affliction with real cheerfulness who does not trust in God.

But there was now and then a bright day when Prudy felt quite buoyant, and wanted to play. Susy left everything then, and tried to amuse her. If this lameness was refining little Prudy, it was also making Susy more patient. She could not look at her little sister's pale face, and not be touched with pity.

One afternoon, Flossy Eastman and Ruthie Turner came to see Susy; and, as it was one of Prudy's best days, Mrs. Parlin said they might play in Prudy's sitting-room. Ruthie was what Susy called an "old-fashioned little girl." She lived with a widowed mother, and had no brothers and sisters, so that she appeared much older than she really was. She liked to talk with grown people upon wise subjects, as if she were at least twenty-five years old. Susy knew that this was not good manners, and she longed to say so to Ruthie.

Aunt Madge was in Prudy's sitting-room when Ruthie entered. Ruthie went up to her and shook hands at once.

"I suppose it is Susy's aunt Madge," said she. "I am delighted to see you, for Susy says you love little girls, and know lots of games."

There was such a quiet composure in Ruth's manner, and she seemed to feel so perfectly at home in addressing a young lady she had never seen before, that Miss Parlin was quite astonished, as well as a little inclined to smile.

Then Ruthie went on to talk about the war. Susy listened in mute despair, for she did not know anything about politics. Aunt Madge looked at Susy's face, and felt amused, for Ruthie knew nothing about politics either: she was as ignorant as Susy. She had only heard her mother and other ladies talking together. Ruthie answered all the purpose of a parrot hung up in a cage, for she caught and echoed everything that was said, not having much idea what it meant.

When aunt Madge heard Ruth laboring away at long sentences, with hard words in them, she thought of little Dotty, as she had seen her, that morning, trying to tug Percy's huge dog up stairs in her arms.

"It is too much for her," thought aunt Madge: "the dog got the upper-hand of Dotty, and I think the big words are more than a match for Ruth."

But Ruth did not seem to know it, for she persevered. She gravely asked aunt Madge if she approved of the "Mancimation of Proclapation." Then she said she and her mamma were very much "perplexed" when news came of the last defeat. She would have said "surprised" only surprised was an every-day word, and not up to standard of elegant English.

Ruth was not so very silly, after all. It was only when she tried to talk of matters too old for her that she made herself ridiculous. She was very quiet and industrious, and had knit several pairs of socks for the soldiers.

As soon as Miss Parlin could disentangle herself from her conversation with Ruthie, she left the children to themselves.

"Let's keep school," said Prudy. "I'll be teacher, if you want me to."

"Very well," replied Susy, "we'll let her; won't we, girls? she is such a darling."

"Well," said Prudy, with a look of immense satisfaction, "please go, Susy, and ask grandma if I may have one of those shiny, white handkerchiefs she wears on her neck, and a cap, and play Quaker."

Grandma was very glad that Prudy felt well enough to play Quaker, and lent her as much "costume" as she needed, as well as a pair of spectacles without eyes, which the children often borrowed for their plays, fancying that they added to the dignity of the wearer.

When Prudy was fairly equipped, she was a droll little Quakeress, surely, and grandma had to be called up from the kitchen to behold her with her own eyes. The little soft face, almost lost in the folds of the expansive cap, was every bit as solemn as if she had been, as aunt Madge said, "a hundred years old, and very old for her age."

She was really a sweet little likeness of grandma Read in miniature.

"And their names are alike, too," said Susy: "grandma's name is Prudence, and so is Prudy's."

"Used to be," said Prudy, gravely.

"Rosy Frances" was now lifted most carefully into her little wheeled chair and no queen ever held a court with more dignity than she assumed as she smoothed into place the folds of her grandma's snowy kerchief, which she wore about her neck.

"What shall we do first?" said Flossy and Susy.

"Thee? thee?" Prudy considered "thee" the most important word of all. "Why, thee may behave; I mean, behave thyselves."

The new teacher had not collected her ideas yet.

"Let's get our books together," said Susy, "and then we'll all sit on the sofa and study."

"Me, me," chimed in Dotty Dimple, dropping the little carriage in which she was wheeling her kitty; "me, too!"

"Well, if you must, you must; snuggle in here between Flossy and me," said Susy, who was determined that to-day everything should go on pleasantly.

"Sixteenth class in joggerphy," said Miss Rosy Frances, peeping severely over her spectacles. "Be spry quick!"

The three pupils stood up in a row, holding their books close to their faces.

"Thee may hold out your hands now, and I shall ferule thee—the whole school," was the stern remark of the young teacher, as she took off her spectacles to wipe the holes.

""Why, we haven't been doing anything," said Ruthie, affecting to cry.

"No, I know it; but thee'd ought to have been doing something; thee'd ought to have studied thy lessons."

"But, teacher, we didn't have time," pleaded Flossy; "you called us out so quick! Won't you forgive us!"

"Yes, I will," said Rosy Frances, gently; "I will, if thee'll speak up 'xtremely loud, and fix thine eyes on thy teacher."

The pupils replied, "Yes, ma'am," at the top of their voices.

"Now," said Rosy Frances, appearing to read from the book, "where is the Isthmus of Susy?"

The scholars all laughed, and answered at random. They did not know that their teacher was trying to say the "Isthmus of Suez."

The next question took them by surprise:—

"Is there any man in the moon?"

"What a queer idea, Rosy," said Susy; "what made you ask that?"

"'Cause I wanted to know," replied the Quaker damsel. "They said he came down when the other man was eatin' porridge. I should think, if he went back up there, and didn't have any wife and children, he'd be real lonesome!"

This idea of Prudy's set the whole school to romancing, although it was in the midst of a recitation. Flossy said if there was a man in the moon, he must be a giant, or he never could get round over the mountains, which she had heard were very steep.

Ruthie asked if there was anything said about his wife! Susy, who had read considerable poetry was sure she had heard something of a woman up there, named "Cynthia;" but she supposed it was all "moonshine," or "made up," as she expressed it. She said she meant to ask her aunt Madge to write a fairy story about it.

Here their progress in useful knowledge was cut short by the disappearance of Dotty. Looking out of the window, they saw the little rogue driving ducks with a broomstick. These ducks had a home not far from Mrs. Parlin's, and if Dotty Dimple had one temptation stronger than all others, it was the sight of those waddling fowls, with their velvet heads, beads of eyes, and spotted feathers. When she saw them "marshin' along," she was instantly seized with a desire either to head the company or to march in the rear, and set them to quacking. She was bareheaded, and Susy ran down stairs to bring her into the house; and that was an end of the school for that day. Dotty Dimple was something like the kettle of molasses which Norah was boiling, very sweet, but very apt to boil over: she needed watching.

When Norah's candy was brought up stairs, the little girls pronounced it excellent.

"O, dear," said Flossy, "I wish our girl was half as good as Norah! I don't see why Electa and Norah ain't more alike when they are own sisters!"

"What dreadful girls your mother always has!" said Susy; "it's too bad?"

"I know of a girl," said Prudy, "one you'd like ever'n, ever so much, Flossy; only you can't have her."

"Why not?" said Flossy; "my mother would go hundreds of leagues to get a good girl. Why can't she have her?"

"O, 'cause, she's dead! It's Norah's cousin over to Ireland."

They next played the little game of guessing "something in this room," that begins with a certain letter. Ruthie puzzled them a long while on the initial S. At last she said she meant "scrutau" (escritoire or scrutoire), pointing towards the article with her finger.

"Why, that's a writing-desk," said Susy. "I don't see where you learn so many big worns, Ruthie."

"O, I take notice, and remember them," replied Ruthie, looking quite pleased. She thought Susy was praising her.

"Now let me tell some letters," said Prudy.

"L.R. She lives at your house, Flossy."

Nobody could guess.

"Why, I should think that was easy enough," said Prudy: "it's that girl that lives there; she takes off the covers of your stove with a clothes-pin: it's 'Lecta Rosbornd.'"

The little girls explained to Prudy that the true initials of Electa Osborne would be E. O., instead of L. R. But Prudy did not know much about spelling. She had known most of her letters; but it was some time ago, and they had nearly all slipped out of her head.

She said, often, she wished she could "only, only read;" and Susy offered to teach her, but Mrs. Parlin said it would never do till Prudy felt stronger.

I will tell you now why I think Susy did not understand her mother when she said Annie was not a suitable playmate. In the evening, after Ruthie and Flossy were gone, Susy said to her mother,—

"I feel real cross with Ruthie, mamma: I think she puts herself forward. She goes into a room, and no matter how old the people are that are talking, she speaks up, and says, 'O, yes, I know all about it.' I never saw such an old-fashioned little girl."

"Very well," said Mrs. Parlin; "if she is rude, take care that the same fault does not appear in yourself, Susy."

"But, mother," said Susy, suddenly veering about and speaking in Ruth's favor, "I don't know but it's proper to do as Ruthy does. If you know something, and other people don't, ain't it right to speak up and say it?"

"It is never right for little girls to monopolize conversation, Susy; that is, to take the lead in it, and so prevent older people from talking. Neither is it proper to pretend to know more than we do, and talk of things beyond our knowledge."

"I knew you would say so, mother. I just asked to hear what you would say. I know Ruthie is ill-mannered: do you think I ought to play with her any more?"

Mrs. Parlin looked at Susy in surprise.

"Why, you know, mother, you wouldn't let me play with Annie Lovejoy. You said, 'evil communications corrupted good manners.'"

"But can't you see any difference in the cases, Susy? What a muddy little head you must wear on your shoulders!"

"Not much of any," said Susy, trying to think; "they're both bold; that's what you don't like."

"Anything else, Susy?"

"O, yes, mother; Ruthie's good, and Annie isn't. It was queer for me to forget that!"

"I should think it was, Susy, since it is the only thing of much importance, after all. Now, it seems to me you are very ready to cast off your friends when their manners offend you. How would you like it to be treated in the same way? Suppose Mrs. Turner and Ruthie should be talking together this very minute. Ruthie says, 'That Susy Parlin keeps her drawers in a perfect tumble; she isn't orderly a bit. Susy Parlin never knit a stitch for the soldiers in her life. Mother, mayn't I stop playing with Susy Parlin?'"

Susy laughed, and looked a little ashamed.

"Well, mother," said she, twisting the corner of her handkerchief, "I guess I can't say anything about Ruthie Turner; she's a great deal better girl than I am, any way."