close too tight round me, there are four or five families where I
go visiting, sometimes to breakfast, (for I'm an early riser,)
sometimes to tea, sometimes to dinner, and sometimes to all
three;--sometimes I stay all night.

Everybody is glad to see me, because I pay my way. If the baby has the
colic, I tend it; if Johnny wants a new tail to his kite, I make it; if
Susy has torn her best frock, I mend it; and if Papa comes slily up to
me and slips a dicky into my hand, I sew the missing string on, and say
nothing.

I have lately made the acquaintance of a new family, by the name of
Tompkins; and very pleasant people they are, too. They have a whole
house full of children,--not one too many, according to my way of
thinking. Louisas and Jennys, and Marthas and Marys, and Tommys and
Johnnys, besides a little baby that its mother has never had time to
name.

I love to watch little children. I love to hear them talk when they
don't think I am listening. I love to read to them and watch their eyes
sparkle. I love to play with them, and walk with them. They are often
much pleasanter company than grown people--at least, so Kizzy thinks.
But that is only an old maid's opinion.

I hadn't visited at the Tompkins' long, before I noticed that little
"Luly," as they called her, was one by herself; that is, she was not a
favorite with the rest of the family. At first I didn't understand how
it was, and I felt very much like saying I didn't like it; for Luly
seemed to be a nice little girl, and playful as a little kitty. She was
always laughing, singing, and dancing--now in at one door, and now out
at the other, like a will-o'-the-wisp, or a jack-o'-lantern. Why on
earth they didn't like Luly, I couldn't see. Being an old maid, of
course I couldn't rest easy till I found out the reason of this; and I
soon did it, as you'll see, if you read on to the end of my story.

One day Luly came to me saying, "Tell me a story, there's a good Kizzy,
I am tired of running round."

Well, I knit to my seam needle, and then I took her up on my lap and
began:

Once there was a little girl whose name was Violetta. She had never
kept still five minutes since she was born, and I suppose the
shoemakers were very glad of it. She was as much like a little squirrel
as a little girl could be--nibbling and scampering, scampering and
nibbling, from sunrise to sunset.

When Violetta came into the room, everybody looked uneasy. If her papa
was writing,