he declared her knee was "broken in seven new
places," and the doctor must come and take off the splint. She didn't
want such a hard thing "right on there;" she wanted it "right off."

Her mother told her she must try to be patient, and be one of God's
little girls. "But, mamma," said Prudy, "does God love me any? I should
think, if he loved me, he'd be sorrier I was sick, and get me well."

Then, sometimes, when she had been more fretful than usual, she would
close her eyes, and her mother would hear her say, in a low voice,--

"O, God, I didn't mean to. It's my _knee_ that's cross!"

Upon the whole, I think Prudy was as patient as most children of her age
would have been under the same trial. Her father and mother, who had the
most care of her, did not wonder in the least that her poor little
nerves got tired out sometimes.

While Susy was at school, Prudy had a long time to think what she wanted
her to do when she should come home. She would lie and watch the clock,
for she had learned to tell the time quite well; and when the hour drew
near for Susy to come, she moved her head on the pillow, and twisted her
fingers together nervously.

If Susy was in good season, Prudy put up her little mouth for a kiss,
and said,--

"O, how I do love you, Susy! Ain't I your dear little sister? Well,
won't you make me a lady on the slate?"

Susy's ladies had no necks, and their heads were driven down on their
shoulders, as if they were going to be packed into their chests; but,
such as they were, Prudy wanted them over and over again.

But if Susy stopped to slide, or to play by the way, she would find
little Prudy in tears, and hear her say, "O, what made you? Naughty,
naughty old Susy! I'm goin' to die, and go to God's house, and then
you'll be sorry you didn't 'tend to your little sister."

Susy could never bear to hear Prudy talk about going to God's house. Her
conscience pricked her when she saw that the poor child was grieved; and
she resolved, every time she was late, that she would never be late
again.

Prudy had a great many odd fancies now: among others, she had a fancy
that she did not like the name of Prudy.

"Why; only think," said she, "you keep a-calling me Prudy, and Prudy,
and Prudy. It makes my head ache, to have you say Prudy so much."

"But, my dear child," said Mr. Parlin, smiling, "it happens,
unfortunately, that Prudy is your name; so I think you will have to try
and bear it as well as you can."