can make herself young again, and then people
will admire her."

"O, but they won't; they'll only laugh."

"Very true, Dotty; but I dare say she never thought of that till this
little child told her."

"Fly," said Horace, "You are doing a great deal of good going round
hurting folks' feelings."

"Poor woman!" said Aunt Madge, with a pitying smile; "she might comfort
herself by trying to make her soul beautiful."

"That would be altogether the best plan," said Horace, aside to Prudy;
"she can't do much with her body, that's a fact; it's too dried up."

All this while they were passing elegant shops, and Aunt Madge let the
children pause as long as they liked before the windows, to admire the
beautiful things.

"Whose little grampa is that?" cried Fly, pointing to a Santa Claus
standing on the pavement and holding out his hands with a very pleasant
smile; "he's all covered with a snow-storm."

"He isn't alive," said Dotty; "and the snow is only painted on his coat
in little dots."

"Well, I didn't spect he was alive, Dotty Dimple, only but he made
believe he was. And O, see that hossy! he's dead, too, but he looks as
if you could ride on him."

"This other window is the handsomest, Fly; don't I wish I had some of
those beautiful dripping, red ear-rings?"

"Why, little sister," said Prudy, "I'd as soon think of wanting a gold
nose as those cat-tail ear-rings. What would Grandma Read say?"

"Why, she'd say 'thee' and 'thou,' I s'pose, and ask me if I called 'em
the ornaments of meek and quiet spirits," said Dotty, with a slight curl
of the lip. "Auntie, is it wicked to wear jewels, if your grandma's a
Quaker?"

"I think not; that is, if somebody should give you a pair; but I hope
somebody never will. It is a mere matter of taste, however. O, children,
now I think of it, I'll give you each a little pin-money to spend,
to-day, just as you like. A dollar each to Prudy and Dotty; and, Horace,
here is fifty cents for Flyaway."

"O, you darling auntie!" cried the little Parlins, in a breath. Dotty
shut this, the largest bill she had ever owned, into her red
porte-monnaie, feeling sure she should never want for anything again
that money can buy.

"There, now, Hollis," said Fly, drawing her mouth down and her eyebrows
up, "where's my skipt? _my_ skipt?"

"What? A little snip like you mustn't have money," answered Horace,
carelessly; "auntie gave it to me."

The moment he had spoken the words, he was sorry, fo