set,
and Dotty laughed into her handkerchief.

"There, now, that's done," said Flyaway, jumping up as suddenly as she
had knelt down. "Now I must pray Flipperty."

And before any one could think what the child meant to do, she had
dragged out her dolly, and knelt it on the rug, face downward, over her
own lap.

"O, the wicked creature!" whispered Dotty. But Aunt Madge said nothing.

"Pray," said the little one, in a tone of command. Then, in a fine,
squeaking voice, Fly repeated a prayer. It was intended to be
Flipperty's voice, and Flipperty was too young to talk plain.

"There, that will do," said Aunt Madge, her large gray eyes trying not
to twinkle; "did she ever say her prayers before?"

"Yes, um; she's a goody girl--when I 'member to pray her!"

"Well, dear, I wouldn't 'pray her' any more. It makes us laugh to see
such a droll sight, and nobody wishes to laugh when you are talking to
your Father in heaven."

"No'm," replied Flyaway, winking her eyes solemnly.

But when the "three abed" had been tucked in and kissed, Fly called her
auntie back to ask, "How can Flipperty grow up a goody girl _athout_ she
says her prayers?"

There was such a mixture of play and earnestness in the child's eyes,
that auntie had to turn away her face before she could answer seriously.

"Why, little girls can think and feel you know; but with dollies it is
different. Now, good night, pet; you won't have beautiful dreams, if you
talk any more."

CHAPTER IV.

"TAKING OUR AIRS."

Flyaway awoke singing, and sprang up in bed, saying,--

"Why, I thought I's a car, and that's why I whissiled."

"But you are not a car," yawned Prudy; "please don't sing again, or
dance, either."

"It's the _happerness_ in me, Prudy; and that's what dances; it's the
happerness."

"That's the worst part of Fly Clifford," groaned Dotty; "she won't keep
still in the morning. Might have known there wouldn't be any peace after
she got here."

Dotty always came out of sleep by slow stages, and her affections were
the last part of her to wake up. Just now she did not love Katie
Clifford one bit, nor her own mother either.

"Won't you light the lamp?" piped Flyaway.

"Please don't, Fly," said Prudy; "don't talk!"

"Won't you light the la-amp?"

"No, we will not," said Dotty, firmly.

"Won't you light the la-amp?"

"Is this what we came to New York for?" moaned Dotty; "to be waked up in
the middle of the night by folks singing?"