eled into old women's caps, and even in
the hearts of the poor little old crones the hardening process was going
on, a fierce fire of hate scorching the last central drop of dew, until
nothing would ever, ever grow and bloom again.

It was all over with Lu and Kathie forever and ever.

All this was long ago, of course--indeed, it happened "once upon a
time." It would be difficult now to verify each point in the account. On
the contrary, I suppose it just possible that there may be a mistake as
to the transformation of the children's clothes--the change of the
sun-bonnets into caps, for instance.

But, as a whole, I see no reason to doubt the story. Often, and quite
recently, too, I have seen little faces in danger of a similar
transformation.

Where anger, envy, spite, and some others of the ill-tempers, gain
control of the nerves and muscles of the human countenance, they pull
and twitch and knot and tie these nerves and muscles, until it is almost
impossible to recognize the face.

Sometimes this change has passed off in a minute; but at other times it
has lasted for hours, and there is _always_ danger that the face will
fail to recover its pleasantness wholly, that traces will remain, like
wrinkles in a ribbon that has been tied, and that, at last, the
transformation will be final and fatal, and the fair child become and
remain "a horrid old witch."

Of one thing we all are certain--that the most gossiping and malicious
person now living was once a fair and innocent child; so who shall say
that this which I have related did _not_ happen to Lu and Kathie?

FLAXIE FRIZZLE.

Her name was Mary Gray, but they called her Flaxie Frizzle. She had
light curly hair, and a curly nose. That is, her nose curled up at the
end a wee bit, just enough to make it look cunning.

What kind of a child was she?

Well, I don't want to tell; but I suppose I shall have to. She wasn't
gentle and timid and sweet like you little darlings, oh, no! not like
you. And Mrs. Willard, who was there visiting from Boston, said she was
"dreadful."

She was always talking at the table, for one thing.

"Mamma," said she, one day, from her high chair, "your littlest one
doesn't like fish; what makes you cook him?"

Mamma shook her head, but Flaxie wouldn't look at it. Mrs. Willard was
saying, "When we go to ride this afternoon we can stop at the
slate-quarry."

_Who_ was going to ride? And would they take the "littlest one" too