laughed."

"Well, where was me?" was the next question, after a pause.

Then, when the duty of story-telling was performed, Susy would gladly
have gone back to "climbing the dream-tree;" but no, she must still
listen to Dotty, though she answered her questions in an absent-minded
way, like a person "hunting for a forgotten dream."

One morning she was going to ride with her cousin Percy. It had been
some time since she had seen Wings, except in the stable, where she
visited him every day.

But Dotty had set her heart on a rag-baby which Susy had promised to
dress, and Prudy was anxious that Susy should play several games of
checkers with her.

"O, dear," said the eldest sister, with the perplexed air of a mother
who has disobedient little ones to manage. "I think I have about as much
as I can bear. The _children_ always make a fuss, just as sure as I
want to go out."

The old, impatient spirit was rising; that spirit which it was one of
the duties of Susy's life to keep under control.

She went into the bathing-room, and drank off a glass of cold water, and
talked to herself a while, for she considered that the safest way.

"Have I any right to be cross? Yes, I think I have. Here Dotty woke me
up, right in the middle of a dream, and I'm sleepy this minute. Then
Prudy is a little babyish thing, and always was--making a fuss if I
forget to call her Rosy Frances! Yes, I'll be cross, and act just as I
want to. It's too hard work to keep pleasant; I won't try."

She walked along to the door, but, by that time, the better spirit was
struggling to be heard.

"Now, Susy Parlin," it said, "you little girl with a pony, and a pair of
skates, and feet to walk on, and everything you want, ain't you ashamed,
when you think of that dear little sister you pushed down stairs--no,
didn't push--that poor little lame sister!--O, hark! there is your
mother winding up that hard splint! How would you feel with such a thing
on your hip? Go, this minute, and comfort Prudy!"

The impatient feelings were gone for that time; Susy had swallowed
them, or they had flown out of the window.

"Now Rosy Frances Eastman Mary," said she, "if your splint is all fixed,
I'll comb your hair."

The splint was made of hard, polished wood and brass. Under it were
strips of plaster an inch wide, which wound round and round the poor
wounded limb. These strips of plaster became loose, and there was a
little key-hole in the splint, into which Mrs. Pa