eople in the city of New York. Such fine dresses
and such die-away manners overawed Prudy. She did wish her mamma had
sent a thin summer dress in the trunk. It was dreadful to have to wear
woollen, high-necked and long-sleeved. It cost her a great effort to
cross the room. She felt as awkward as a limping grasshopper in a crowd
of butterflies. But reaching her hostess at last, she timidly
whispered,--

"My sister _says_ she isn't very well, Mrs. Pragoff, and that's why she
stays up stairs. If you please, perhaps she'd better go to bed."

Prudy was very much ashamed to say this; but politeness required her to
make some excuse for wayward Dotty's behavior.

Of course Mrs. Pragoff went up stairs at once. At the sound of her
steps, and the words, "You poor, forlorn little dear," Dotty came out of
the curtain, looking as miserable as could be desired.

"I am so sorry, darling! I wished you to become acquainted with these
nice little gentlemen and ladies."

"But I--I--it hurts me to talk, ma'am."

"_Your_ throat, too? O, my love!" cried Mrs. Pragoff, seeing a dreadful
vision, with her mind's eye, of two cases of scarlet fever. She was a
childless widow, and children puzzled as well as interested her. She
did not know what to make of Dotty's confused statement that she "wasn't
sick and wasn't well," but undressed and put her to bed as if she had
been six months old, resolving to send for the doctor in the morning.

"What have you on your neck, precious? O, that rosary. It is one of my
curiosities. Do you fancy it?"

"Here is the box in which it belongs. I give you the box and the beads,
my charming dear, for a Christmas present and a consolation. See the
card at the bottom of the box:--

"'Life is a rosary,
Strung with the beads of little deeds
Done humbly, Lord, as unto Thee.'

"I hope your life will be the most beautiful of rosaries, darling, and
all your little deeds as lovely as these beads.

"And now, good night, and may the Christ-Child give you your dreams."

As soon as Dotty was alone, she covered her head with the bed-clothes,
and made up faces. She wished she could push herself through the
footboard, and come out at Portland. She never wished to set eyes on the
city of New York again, or anybody that lived in it.

CHAPTER IX.

TWO LIVE CHILDREN.

As Dotty lay tossing on her bed, she heard the laughing, and the lively
music of the piano, and began to find she ha