before?"

"Now, Percy! When you know I want it out of my sight!"

Then, in the next breath, "Why, Percy Eastman, if here isn't your
beautiful mocking-bird in the cage!"

"Yes, Susy; and if you'll keep him, and be good to him, you'll do me a
great favor."

It was a long while before Susy could be persuaded that this rare bird
was to be her "ownest own." It was a wonderfully gifted little creature.
Susy could but own that he was just as good as a canary, only a great
deal better. "The greater included the less." He had as sweet a voice,
and a vast deal more compass. His powers of mimicry were very amusing to
poor little Prudy, who was never tired of hearing him mew like a kitten,
quack like a duck, or whistle like a schoolboy.

Susy was still more delighted than Prudy. It was so comforting, too, to
know that she was doing Percy "a great favor," by accepting his
beautiful present. She wondered in her own mind how he _could_ be tired
of such an interesting pet, and asked her to take it, just to get rid of
it!

About this time, Mr. Parlin bought for Prudy a little armed-chair, which
rolled about the floor on wheels. This Prudy herself could propel with
only the outlay of a very little strength; but there were days when she
did not care to sit in it at all. Prudy seemed to grow worse. The doctor
was hopeful, very hopeful; but Mrs. Parlin was not.

Prudy's dimpled hands had grown so thin, that you could trace the
winding path of every blue vein quite distinctly. Her eyes were large
and mournful, and seemed to be always asking for pity. She grew quiet
and patient--"painfully patient," her father said. Indeed, Mr. Parlin,
as well as his wife, feared the little sufferer was ripening for heaven.

"Mamma," said she, one day, "mamma, you never snip my fingers any
nowadays do you? When I'm just as naughty, you never snip my fingers!"

Mrs. Parlin turned her face away. There were tears in her eyes, and she
did not like to look at those little white fingers, which she was almost
afraid would never have the natural, childish naughtiness in them any
more.

"I think sick and patient little girls don't need punishing," said she,
after a while. "Do you remember how you used to think I snipped your
hands to 'get the naughty out?' You thought the naughty was all in your
little hands!"

"But it wasn't, mamma," said Prudy, slowly and solemnly. "I know where
it was: it was in my _heart_."

"Who can take the naughty out of our hear