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 belong