ber your name."

"That is it; you have it exactly; but never mind about the last part, my
love. Pragoff is enough."

"Yes'm.--Well, I was going to ask you, Mrs. Yetski, will you please sit
between me and Fly when we go into church? O, you don't know how funny
she acts, or you never'd dare take her. I wouldn't laugh in church for
anything in this world; but Fly always makes me."

"Does she, indeed! Ah me, that is very unfortunate!" said the queenly
lady, looking down on little Miss Toddlekins as if she were actually
afraid of her. She took care to put Dotty out of harm's way, by placing
the untamable Fly between Horace and Prudy.

The interior of Trinity Church was so magnificent, the Christmas
decorations so fresh and beautiful, and the service so imposing, that no
one thought of such a thing as smiling.

"How could I have been so impatient, yesterday?" thought Prudy, as she
listened to the plaintive chant, "He was a man of sorrows, and
acquainted with grief."

"Why, if you only think of that, how our Saviour had trouble every
minute, it doesn't seem as if it makes so much difference whether we
people and children have a good time or not."

Here, as they were about to seat themselves at the close of the chant,
Fly, who, in spite of her brother's warnings, had been tilting back and
forth on a stool, suddenly tipped forward, and hit her nose furiously.
Blood flowed from the wound; and the sight of it, together with the
pain, made the child frantic. She forgot where she was and screamed.
Poor Mrs. Pragoffyetski! Though a good woman in the main, she was rather
proud of appearances, and had just been thinking the four children did
her credit. But now! The shrill cry of distress called everybody's
attention to her pew. The whole audience were looking up from their
prayer-books in astonishment.

"Tut, tut! My dear! My love! Hush, my babe, lie still,--O, can't you
stop crying?"

Horace, too, was trying to quiet the child; but Fly sincerely believed
she was bleeding to death; so what did she care for proprieties?

"O, my shole!" piped she aloud, plunging both hands into the stream of
blood, and afterwards into her hair.

Thus, by the time Mrs. Pragoff and Horace got her into the aisle, she
looked as if she had been murdered.

"I wish I was twenty-one," thought Horace, bitterly. "Mrs. Fixfax had no
business steaming this child. I believe it has gone to her brain."

The party of five marched out of church, for Mrs.