"O, dear me! you ask such queer questions that I can't answer them, Dotty Dimple. All I know is this: everything happens just right in this world—when you can't help it."

With which sage remark Prudy stepped out of bed, and began to dress herself. Dotty planted her elbow in the pillow, and leaned her head on her hand.

"I don't believe it happens just right for Mrs. Rosenberg to keep that dog, or to thump so with a thimble; but, then, I don't know."

"I'm hurrying to get dressed," said Prudy. "The first bell has rung."

"Why, I never heard it," cried Dotty, springing up. "I wouldn't be late to-day for anything."

Prudy looked anxiously at her little sister to see if she was cross; but her face was as serene as the cloudless sky; she had waked up right, and meant to be good all day. When Dotty had one of her especially good days, Prudy's cup of happiness was full. She ran down stairs singing,—

"Thank God for pleasant weather! Shout it merrily, ye hills, And clap your hands together, Ye exulting little rills.

"Thank him, bird and birdling, As ye grow and sing; Mingle in thanksgiving, Every living thing, Every living thing, Every living thing."

Dotty was so anxious to redeem her character in everybody's eyes, that she hardly knew what she was doing. Mrs. Parlin sent her into the kitchen with a message to Norah concerning the turkey; but she forgot it on the way, and stood by Norah's elbow gazing at the raisins, fruit, and other nice things in a maze.

"What did my mamma send me here for? She ought to said it over twice. Any way, Norah, now I think of it, I wish you please wouldn't starch my aprons on the inside; starch 'em on the outside, 'cause they rub against my neck."

"Go back and see what your mamma wants," said Norah, laughing.

"Why, mamma," cried Dotty reappearing in the parlor quite crestfallen—" why, mamma, I went right up to Norah to ask her, and asked her something else. My head spins dreadfully."

Mrs. Parlin repeated the message; and Dotty delivered it this time correctly, adding,—

"Now, Norah, I'm all dressed for dinner; so I can do something for you just as well as not. Such days as, this, when you have so much to do, you ought to let me help."

To Dotty's surprise Norah found this suggestion rather amusing.

"For mercy's sake," said she, "I have got my hands full now; and when you are round, Miss Dotty, and have one of your good fits, it seems as if I should fly."

"What do you mean by a good fit?"

"Why, you have spells, child—you know you do—when butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."

"Do I?" said Dotty. "I thought butter always melted in anybody's mouth. Does it make my mouth cold to be good, d'ye s'pose?"

"La, me, I don't know," replied the girl, washing a potato vigorously.

"I might wash those potatoes," said Dotty, plucking Norah's sleeve; "do you put soap on them?"

"Not much soap—no."

"Well, then, Norah, you shouldn't put any soap on them; that's why I asked; for my mother just washes and rinses 'em; that's the proper way."

"For pity's sake," said Norah, giving the little busybody a good-natured push. "What's going on in the parlor, Miss Dotty? You'd better run and see. If you should go in there and look out of the window, perhaps a monkey would come along with an organ."

"No, he wouldn't, Norah, and if he did, Prudy'd let me know."

As Dotty spoke she was employed in slicing an onion, while the tears ran down her cheeks; but a scream from Norah caused her to drop the knife.

"Why, what is it?" said Dotty.

"Ugh! It's some horrid little animil crawling down my neck."

"Let me get him," cried Dotty, seizing a pin, and rushing at poor Norah, who tried in vain to ward off the pin and at the same time catch the spider.

"Will you let me alone, child?"

"No, no; I want the bug myself," cried Dotty, pricking Norah on the cheek.

"Want the bug?"

"Yes; mayn't I stick him through with a pin from ear to ear? I know a lady Out West that's making a c'lection of bugs."

"Well, here he is, then; and a pretty scrape I've had catching him; thanks be to you all the same, Miss Dimple."

As it turned out to be only a hair-pin, Dotty shook her head in disdain, and went on slicing onions.

"Sure now," said Norah, "I should think you'd be wanting to go and see what's become of your sister Prudy. Maybe she's off on the street somewhere, and never asked you to go with her."

"Now you're telling a hint," exclaimed Dotty, making a dash at a turnip. "I know what you mean by your monkeys and things; you want to get me away. It's not polite to tell hints, Norah; my mamma says so."

But as Dotty began to see that she really was not wanted, she concluded to go, though she must have it seem that she went of her own accord, and not because of Norah's "hints."

"Did you think it was a buggler, when I opened the cellar-door last night, Norah?"

"No; I can't say as I did—not when I looked at you," replied Norah, gravely.

"'Cause I'm going into the parlor to ask mother if she thought I was a buggler. I believe I won't help you any more now, Norah; p'rhaps I'll come out by and by."

So Dotty skipped away; but it never occurred to her that she had been troublesome. She merely thought it very strange Norah did not appreciate her services.

"I s'pose she knows mother'll help her if I don't," said she to herself.

Dotty's goodness ran on with a ceaseless flow till two o'clock, when that event took place which the children regarded as the most important one of the day—that is, dinner.

After the silent blessing, Mr. Parlin turned to his youngest daughter, and said,—

"Alice, do you know what Thanksgiving Day is for?"

"Yes, sir; for turkey."

"Is that all?"

"No, sir; for plum pudding."

"What do you think about it, Prudy?"

"I think the same as Dotty does, sir," replied Prudy, with a wistful glance at her father's right hand, which held the carving knife.

"What do you say, Susy?"

"It comes in the almanac, just like Christmas, sir; and it's something about the Pilgrim Fathers and the Mayflower."

"No, Susy; it does not come in the almanac; the Governor appoints it. We have so many blessings that he sets apart one day in the year in which we are to think them over, and be thankful for them."

"Yes, sir; yes, indeed," said Susy. "I always knew that."

"Now, before I carve the turkey, what if I ask the question all around what we feel most thankful for to-day? We will begin with grandmamma."

"If thee asks me first," said grandma Read, clasping her blue-veined, beautiful old hands, "I shall say I have everything to be thankful for; but I am most thankful for peace. Thee knows how I feel about war."

The children thought this a strange answer. They had almost forgotten there had ever been a war.

"Now, Mary, what have you to say?" asked Mr. Parlin of his wife.

"I am thankful we are all alive," replied Mrs. Parlin, looking at the faces around the table with a loving smile.

"And I," said her husband, "am thankful we all have our eyesight. I have thought more about it since I have visited two or three Blind Asylums. Susy, it is your turn."

"Papa, I'm thankful I'm so near thirteen."

Mr. Parlin stroked his mustache to hide a smile. He thought that was a very young remark.

"And you, Prudy?"

"I'm so thankful, sir," answered Prudy, reflecting a while, "so thankful this house isn't burnt up."

"Bless your little grateful heart," said her father, leaning towards her and stroking her cheek. "For my part, I think one fire is quite enough for one family. I confess I never should have dreamed of being thankful we hadn't had two. Well, Alice, what have you to say? I see a thought in your eyes."

"Why, papa," said Dotty, laying her forefingers together with emphasis, "I've known what I'm thankful for, for two days. I'm thankful Mrs. Rosenberg isn't my mother!"

A smile went around the table.

"But, papa, I am, truly. What should I want her for a mother for?"

"Indeed, I see no reason, my child, since you already have a pretty good mother of your own."

"Pretty good, papa!" said Dotty, in a tone of mild reproof. "Why, if she was YOUR mother, you'd think she was very good."

"Granted," returned Mr. Parlin.

"I don't think you'd like it, papa, to have her scold so she shakes down cobwebs."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Rosenberg."

"Never mind, my dear; we will not discuss that woman to-day. I hope you will some time learn to pronounce her name."

Then followed a few remarks from Mr. Parlin upon our duty to the Giver of all good things; after which he began at last to carve the turkey. The children thought it was certainly time he did so. They were afraid their thankfulness would die out if they did not have something to eat pretty soon.



CHAPTER X.

GRANDMA'S OLD TIMES.

Grandma Read was in her own room, sitting before a bright "clean" fire. She did not like coal; she said it made too much dust; so she always used wood. She sat with her knitting in her hands, clicking the needles merrily while she looked into the coals.

People can see a great many things in coals. Just now she saw the face of her dear husband, who had long ago been buried out of her sight. He had a broad-brimmed hat on his head, and there was a twinkle in his eye, for he had been a funny man, and very fond of a joke. Grandma smiled as if she could almost hear him tell one of his droll stories.

Presently there was a little tap at the door. Grandma roused herself, and looked up to see who was coming.

"Walk in," said she; "walk in, my dear."

"Yes'm, we came a-purpose to walk in," replied a cheery voice; and Prudy and Dotty danced into the room, with their arms about each other's waists.

"O, how pleasant it seems in here!" said Prudy; "when I come in I always feel just like singing."

"Thee likes my clean fire," said grandma.

"But, grandma," said Dotty, "I should think you'd be lonesome 'thout anybody but you."

"No, my dear; the room is always full."

"Full, grandma?"

"Yes; full of memories."

The children looked about; but they only two sunny windows; a table with books on it, and a pair of gold fishes; a bed with snowy coverlet and very high pillows; a green and white carpet; a mahogany bureau and washing-stand; and then the bright fireplace, with a marble mantel, and a pair of gilt bellows hanging on a brass nail.

It was a very neat and cheerful room; but they could not understand why there should be any more memories in it than there were in any other part of the house.

"We old people live very much in the past," said grandma Read. "Prudence, if thee'll pick up this stitch for me, I will tell thee what I was thinking of when thee and Alice came in."

So saying, she held out the little red mitten she was knitting, and at the same time took the spectacles off her nose and offered them to Prudy. Prudy laughed.

"Why, grandma! my eyes are as good as can be. I don't wear glasses."

"So thee doesn't, child, surely. I am a little absent-minded, thinking of old mother Knowles."

"Grandma, please wait a minute," said Prudy, after she had picked up the stitch. "If you are going to tell a story, I want to get my work and bring it in here. I'm in a hurry about that scarf for mamma."

"It is nothing very remarkable," said Mrs. Read, as the children seated themselves, one on each side of her, Prudy with her crocheting of violet and white worsted, and Dotty with nothing at all to do but play with the tongs.

"Mrs. Knowles was a very large, fleshy woman, who lived near my father's house when I was a little girl. Some people were very much afraid of her, and thought her a witch. Her sister's husband, Mr. Palmer, got very angry with her, and declared she bewitched his cattle."

"Did she, grandma?" asked Dotty.

"No, indeed, my dear; and couldn't have done it if she had tried."

"Then 'twas very unpertinent for him to say so!"

"He was a lazy man, and did not take proper care of his animals. Sometimes he came over and talked with my mother about his trials with his wicked sister-in-law. He said he often went to the barn in the morning, and found his poor cattle had walked up to the top of the scaffold; and how could they do that unless they were bewitched?"

"Did they truly do it? I know what the scaffold is; it is a high place where you look for hen's eggs."

"Yes; I believe the cows did really walk up there; but this was the way it happened, Alice: They were not properly fastened into their stalls, and being very hungry, they went into the barn for something to eat. The barn floor was covered with hay, and there was a hill of hay which led right up to the scaffold; so they could get there well enough without being bewitched."

"Did your mother—my great-grandma—believe in witches?" asked Prudy. "What did she say to Mr. Palmer?"

"O, no! she had no faith in witches; thy great grandmother was a sensible woman." She said to him, "Friend Asa, thee'd better have some good strong bows made for thy cattle, and put on their necks; and then I think thee'll find they can't get out of their stalls. Thee says they are as lean as Pharaoh's kine, and I would advise thee to feed them better. Cattle that are well fed and well cared for will never go bewitched."

"Did Mrs. Knowles know what people said about her?" asked Prudy.

"Yes; she heard the stories, and it made her feel very badly."

"How did she look?"

"A little like thy grandmother Parlin, if I remember, only she was much larger."

"Did she know anything?"

"O, yes; it was rather an ignorant neighborhood; but she was one of the most intelligent women in it."

"Did she ever go anywhere?"

"Yes; she came to my mother for sympathy. I remember just how she looked in her tow and linen dress, with her hair fastened at the back of the head with a goose-quill."

"There, there!" cried Dotty, "that was what made 'em call her a witch!"

"O, no; a goose-quill was quite a common fashion in those times, and a great deal prettier, too, than the waterfalls thee sees nowadays. Mrs. Knowles dressed like other people, and looked like other people, for aught I know; but I wished she would not come to our house so much."

"Didn't you like her?"

"Yes; I liked her very well, for she carried peppermints in a black bag on her arm; but I was afraid the stories were true, and she might bewitch my mother."

"Why, grandma, I shouldn't have thought that of you!"

"I was a very small girl then, Prudence; and the children I played with belonged, for the most part, to ignorant families."

"Grandma was like an apple playing with potatoes," remarked Dotty, one side to Prudy.

"I used to watch Mrs. Knowles," continued Mrs. Read, "hoping to see her cry; for they said if she was really a witch, she could shed but three tears, and those out of her left eye."

"Did you ever catch her crying?"

"Once," replied grandma, with a smile; "and then she kept her handkerchief at her face. I was quite disappointed, for I couldn't tell which eye she cried out of."

"Please tell some more," said Dotty.

"They said Mrs. Knowles was often seen in a high wind riding off on a broomstick. It ought to have been a strong broomstick, for she was a very large woman."

"Why, grandma," said Prudy, thrusting her hook into a stitch, "I can't help thinking what queer days you lived in! Now, when I talk to my grandchildren, I shall tell them of such beautiful things; of swings and picnics, and Christmas trees."

"So shall I to my grandchildren," said Dotty; "but not always. I shall have to look sober sometimes, and tell 'em how I had the sore throat, and couldn't swallow anything but boiled custards and cream toast. 'For,' says I, 'children, it was very different in those days.'"

"Ah, well, you little folks look forward, and we old folks look backward; but it all seems like a dream, either way, to me," said grandma Read, binding off the thumb of her little red mitten—"like a dream when it is told."

"Speaking of telling dreams, grandma, I had a funny one last night," said Prudy, "about a queer old gentleman. Guess who it was."

"Thy grandfather, perhaps. Does thee remember, Alice, how thee used to sit on his knee and comb his hair with a toothpick?"

"I don't think 'twas me," said Dotty; "for I wasn't born then."

"It was I," replied Prudy. "I remember grandpa now, but I didn't use to. It wasn't grandpa I dreamed about—it was Santa Claus."

Grandma smiled, and raised her spectacles to the top of her forehead.

"We never talked about fairies in my day," said she. "I never heard of a Santa Claus when I was young."

"Well, grandma, he came down the chimney in a coach that looked like a Quaker bonnet on wheels—but he was all a-dazzle with gold buttons; and what do you think he said?"

"Something very foolish, I presume."

"He said, 'Miss Prudy, I'm going to be married.' Only think! and he such a very old bachelor."

"Did thee dream out the bride?"

"It was Mother Goose."

"Very well," said Mrs. Read, smiling. "I should think that was a very good match."

"She did look so funny, grandma, with a great hump on her nose, and one on her back! Santa Claus kissed her; and what do you think she said?"

"I am sure I can't tell; I am not acquainted with thy fairy folks."

"Why, she shook her sides, and, said she, 'Sing a song o' sixpence.'"

"That was as sensible a speech as thee could expect from that quarter."

"O, grandma, you don't care anything about my dream, or I could go on and describe the wedding-cake; how she put sage in it, and pepper, and mustard, and baked it on top of one of our registers. What do you suppose made me dream such a queer thing?"

"Thee was probably thinking of thy mother's wedding."

"O, Christmas is going to be splendided than ever, this year," said Dotty; "isn't it grandma? Did you have any Christmases when you were young?"

"O, yes; but we didn't make much account of Christmas in those days."

"Why, grandma! I knew you lived on bean porridge, but I s'posed you had something to eat Christmas!"

"O, sometimes I had a little saucer-pie, sweetened with molasses, and the crust made of raised dough."

"Poor, dear grandma!"

"I remember my father used to put a great backlog on the fire Christmas morning, as large as the fireplace would hold; and that was all the celebration we ever had."

"Didn't you have Christmas presents?"

"No, Alice; not so much as a brass thimble."

"Poor grandma! I shouldn't think you would have wanted to live! Didn't anybody love you?" said Dotty, putting her fingers under Mrs. Read's cap, and smoothing her soft gray hair; "why, I love every hair of your head."

"I am glad thee does, child; but that doesn't take much love, for thee knows I haven't a great deal of hair."

"But, grandma, how could you live without Christmas trees and things?"

"I was happy enough, Alice."

"But you'd have been a great deal happier, grandma, if you'd had a Santa Claus! It's so nice to believe what isn't true!"

"Ah! does thee think so? There was one thing I believed when I was a very little girl, and it was not true. I believed the cattle knelt at midnight on Christmas eve."

"Knelt, grandma? For what?"

"Because our blessed Lord was born in a manger."

"But they didn't know that. Cows can't read the Bible."

"It was an idle story, of course, like the one about Mother Knowles. A man who worked at our house, Israel Grossman, told it to me, and I thought it was true."

Here grandma gazed into the coals again. She could see Israel Grossman sitting on a stump, whittling a stick and puffing away at a short pipe.

"Well, children," said she, "I have talked to you long enough about things that are past and gone. On the whole, I don't say they were good old times, for the times now are a great deal better."

"Yes, indeed," said Prudy.

"Except one thing," added grandma, looking at Dotty, who was snapping the tongs together. "Children had more to do in my day than they have now."

Dotty blushed.

"Grandma," said she, "I'm having a playtime, you know, 'cause there can't anybody stop to fix my work. But mother says after the holidays I'm going to have a stint every day."

"That's right, dear. Now thee may run down and get me a skein of red yarn thee will find on the top shelf in the nursery closet."



CHAPTER XI.

THE CRYSTAL WEDDING.

As the crystal wedding was to take place on the twenty-fourth, the Christmas tree was deferred till the night after, and was not looked forward too by the children as anything very important. They had had a tree, a Kris Kringle, or something of the sort, every year since they could remember; but a wedding was a rare event, and to be a bridesmaid was as great an honor, Dotty thought, as could be conferred on any little girl.

It was intended that everything should be as much as possible like the original wedding. Mrs. Parlin was to wear the same dove-colored silk and bridal veil she had worn then, and Mr. Parlin the same coat and white vest, though they were decidedly out of fashion by this time. Dotty was resplendent in a white dress with a long sash, a gold necklace of her aunt Eastman's, and a pair of white kid slippers. Johnny was to be groomsman. He was a boy who was always startling his friends with some new idea, and this time he had "borrowed" a silver bouquet-holder out of his mother's drawer, and filled it with the loveliest greenhouse flowers.

Until Dotty saw this, she had been happy; but the thought of standing up with a boy who held such a beautiful toy, while her own little hands would be empty—this was too much.

"Johnny Eastman," said she, with a trembling voice, "how do you think it will look to be holding flowers up to your nose when the minister's a-praying? I'd be so 'shamed, so 'shamed, Johnny Eastman!"

"You want the bouquet-holder yourself, you know you do," said Johnny; "you want everything you see; and if folks don't give right up to you, then there's a fuss."

"O, Johnny Eastman, I'm a girl, and that's the only reason why I want the bouquet-holder! If I was a boy, do you s'pose I'd touch such a thing? But I can't wear flowers in the button-holes of my coat—now can I?"

The children were in the guest chamber, preparing to go down—all but Prudy, who was in her mother's room, assisting at the bridal toilet. Susy and Flossy stood before the mirror, and Johnny and Dotty in the middle of the room, confronting each other with angry brows.



"Hush, children!" said Susy, in an absentminded way, and went on brushing her hair, which was one of the greatest trials in the whole world, because it would not curl. She had frizzed it with curling-tongs, rolled it on papers, and drenched it with soap suds till there was danger of its fading entirely away; still it was as straight, after all, as an Indian's.

"O, dear!" said she; "it sticks up all over my head like a skein of yarn. Children, do hush!"

"Mine curls too tight, if anything; don't you think so?" asked Flossy, trying not to look as well satisfied with herself as she really felt; adding, by way of parenthesis, "Johnny, why can't you be quiet?"

"Are you going to let me have that bouquet-holder, Johnny Eastman?" continued Dotty; "'cause I'm going right out to tell my mother. She'll be so mortified she'll send you right home, if you hold it up to your nose, when you are nothing but a boy."

"That's right, Dimple, run and tell."

"No, I shan't tell if you'll give it to me. And you may have one of the roses in your button-hole, Johnny. That's the way the Pickings man had, that wrote Little Nell; father said so. There's a good boy, now!"

Dotty dropped her voice to a milder key, and smiled as sweetly as the bitterness of her feelings would permit. She had set her heart on the toy, and her white slippers, and even her gold necklace, dwindled into nothing in comparison.

"Whose mother owns this bouquet-holder, I'd like to know?" said Johnny, flourishing it above his head. "And whose father brought home the flowers from the green-house?"

"Well, any way, Johnny, 'twas my aunt and uncle, you know; and they'd be willing, 'cause your mamma let me have her necklace 'thout my asking."

"I can't help it if they're both as willing as two peas," cried Johnny. "I'm not willing myself, and that's enough."

"O, what a boy! I was going to put some of my nightly blue sirreup on your hangerjif, and now I won't—see if I do!"

"I don't want anybody's sirup," retorted Johnny; "'tic'ly such a cross party's as you are."

"Johnny Eastman, you just stop murdering me."

"Murdering you?"

"Yes; 'he that hateth his brother.'"

"I'm not your brother, I should hope."

"Well, a cousin's just as bad."

"No, not half so bad. I wouldn't be your brother if I had to be a beggar."

"And I wouldn't let you be a brother, Johnny Eastman, not if I had to go and be a heathen."

"O, what a Dotty!"

"O, what a Johnny!"

By this time the little bridesmaid's face was anything but pleasant to behold. Both her dimples were buried out of sight, and she had as many wrinkles in her forehead as grandma Head. Johnny danced about the room, holding before her eyes the bone of contention, then drawing it away again in the most provoking manner.

"If you act so, Johnny Eastman, I won't have you for my bridegroom."

"And I won't have you for my bride—so there!"

The moment these words were spoken, the angry children were frightened. They had not intended to go so far. It had been their greatest pleasure for several weeks to think of "standing up" at a wedding; and they would neither of them have missed the honor on any account. But now, in their foolish strife, they had made it impossible to do the very thing they most desired to do. They had said the fatal words, and were both of them too proud to draw back. There was one comfort. "The wedding will be stopped," thought Dotty; "they can't be married 'thout Johnny and me."

The guests were all assembled. It was now time for the bridal train to go down stairs and have the ceremony performed. As the children left the chamber, uncertain what to do, but resolved that whichever "stood up," the other would sit down, Johnny seized a bottle of panacea which stood on the mantel, and wet the corner of Dotty's handkerchief.

"There is some sirup worth having," said he; "stronger than yours. Rub it in your eyes, and see if it isn't."

The boy did not mean what he said, or at any rate we will hope he did not; but Dotty, in her haste and agitation, obeyed him without stopping one moment to think.

Instantly the wedding was forgotten, the bouquet-holder, the anger, the disappointment, and everything else but the agony in her eyes. It was so dreadful that she could only scream, and spin round and round like a top.

A scene of confusion followed. The poor child was so frantic that her father was obliged to hold her by main force, while her mother tried to bathe her eyes with cold water. They were fearfully inflamed, and for a whole hour the wedding was delayed, while poor Dotty lay struggling in her father's arms, or tore about the nursery like a wild creature.

Johnny was very sorry. He said he did not know what was in the bottle; he had sprinkled his cousin's handkerchief in sport.

"She talks so much about her 'nightly blue sirreup,'" said he to his mother, "that I thought I would tease her a little speck."

"I don't know but you have put her eyes out," said his mother, severely.

"O, do you think so?" wailed Johnny. "O, don't say so, mother!"

"I hope not, my child; but panacea is a very powerful thing. I don't know precisely what is in it, but you have certainly tried a dangerous experiment."

"I didn't mean to, mother; I'll never do so again."

"That is what you always say," replied his mother, shaking her head; "and that is why I am so discouraged about you. Nothing seems to make any impression upon you. If you have really made your cousin blind for life I hope it will be a lesson to you."

While Mrs. Eastman talked, looking very stately in her velvet dress, Master Johnny was balancing himself on the hat-tree in the hall, as if he scarcely heard what she said; but, in spite of his disrespectful manner, he was really unhappy.

"I knew something would go wrong," continued Mrs. Eastman, "when it was first proposed that you and Dotty should stand up together, and I did not approve of the plan. What is the reason you two children must always be quarrelling?"

"She is the one that begins it," replied Johnny. "If I could have stood up with Prudy, there wouldn't have been any fuss."

"With Prudy, indeed! I dare say you would be glad to do so now, you naughty boy. Your kind aunt Mary suggested it, but I told her, No. Since you have hurt Dotty so terribly, you cannot be groomsman."

"O, mother!"

"No, my son. She is unable to perform her part, and you must give up yours. Percy will take your place."

In spite of his manliness, Johnny dropped a few tears, which he brushed away with the back of his hand; but his mother, for once in her life, was firm.

I will not say that Johnny's disappointment was not some consolation to Dotty, who lay on the sofa in the parlor with her eyes bandaged, while the wedding ceremony was performed. If Johnny had been one of the group, while her own poor little self was left out, necklace, slippers, and all, she would have thought it unjust.

As it was, it seemed hard enough. She was in total darkness, but her "mind made pictures while her eyes were shut." She could almost see how the bride and bridegroom looked, holding each other by the hand, with the tall Percy on one side, and the short Prudy on the other,—the dear Prudy, who was so sorry for her sister that she could not enjoy taking her place, though a fairer little bridesmaid than she made could hardly be found in the city.

The same clergyman officiated now who had married Mr. and Mrs. Parlin fifteen years before; and after he had married them over again, he made a speech which caused Dotty to cry a little under her handkerchief; or, if not the speech, it was the panacea that brought the tears—she did not know which.

He said he remembered just how Edward Parlin and Mary Read looked when they stood before him in the bloom of their youth, and promised to live together as husband and wife. They had seemed very happy then; but he thought they were happier now; he could read in their faces the history of fifteen beautiful years. He did not wonder the time had passed very pleasantly, for they knew how to make each other happy; they had tried to do right, and they had three lovely children, who were blessings to them, and would be blessings to any parents.

It was here that Dotty felt the tears start.

"I'm not a blessing at all," thought she; "he doesn't know anything about it, how I act, and had temper up stairs with Johnny! Johnny's put my eyes out for it, and I'll have to go to the 'Sylum, I suppose. If I do, I shan't be a blessing so much as I am now! To anybody ever!"

By and by aunt Eastman presented the bride with a bridal rose, which looked as nearly as possible like the one she had given her at the first wedding, and which grew from a slip of the same plant. Dotty could not see the rose, but she heard her aunt say she hoped to attend Mrs. Parlin's Golden Wedding.

"I shall be ever so old by that time," thought the little girl. "Fifteen from fifty leaves—leaves—I don't know what it leaves; but I shall be a blind old lady, and wear a cap. Perhaps God wants to make a very good woman of me, same as Emily, and that's why he let Johnny put my eyes out."

Here some one came along and offered Miss Dimple a slice of wedding cake, which tasted just as delicious as if she could see it; then some one else put a glass of lemonade to her lips.

"Has my little girl a kiss for me?" said Mrs. Parlin, coming to the sofa as soon as she could break away from her guests.

The gentle "mother-touch" went to Dotty's heart. She threw her arms about Mrs. Parlin's neck, wrinkling her collar and tumbling her veil.

"Take care, my child," said Mr. Parlin, laughing; "do not crush the bride. Everybody has been coming up to salute her, and you must understand that she does you a great honor to go to you and beg a kiss."

"It is just like you, though, mamma. You are so good to me, and so is everybody! No matter how naughty I am, and spoil weddings, they don't say, 'You hateful thing!'"

"Would it make you a better child, do you think, Dotty, to be scolded when you do wrong?"

"Why, no, indeed, mamma. It's all that makes me not be the wickedest girl in this city, is 'cause you are so good to me; I know it is."

Mrs. Parlin kissed the little mouth that said these sweet words.

"And now that I am blind, mamma, you are so kind, I s'pose you'll feed me with a spoon."

"You will surely be taken care of, dear, as long as your eyes are in this state."

"But shan't I be always blind?"

"No, indeed, child; you will be quite well in a day or two."

"O, I'm so glad, mamma. I was thinking I shouldn't ever go to school, and should have to be sent to the 'Sylum."

While Dotty was speaking, Johnny came up to the sofa, and, taking her hand, said, in a tone of real sorrow,—

"Look here, Dotty; I was a naughty boy; will you forgive me?"

As Johnny was not in the habit of begging pardon, and did it now of his own free will, Dotty was greatly astonished.

"Yes, Johnny," said she, "I forgive you all up. But then I don't ever want you to put my eyes out again."

"I won't, now, honest; see 'f I do," replied Master Johnny, in a choked voice. "And you may have that bouquet-holder, to keep; mother said so."

"O, Johnny!"

"Yes; mother says we can call it a 'peace offering.' Let's not quarrel any more, Dotty, just to see how 'twill seem."

"What, never!" exclaimed Dotty, starting up on her elbow, and trying to look through her thick bandage at Johnny. "Never! Why, don't you mean to come to my house any more, Johnny Eastman?"

"Yes; but I won't quarrel unless you begin it."

"O, I shan't begin it," replied Miss Dimple, confidently; "I never do, you know."

Johnny had the grace not to retort. He was ashamed of his ungentlemanly conduct, and knelt before the sofa, gazing sadly at his blindfolded little cousin. It was a humble place for him, and we will leave him there, hoping his penitence may do him good for the future.

As for Miss Dimple, we will bid her goodbye while her eyes are closed. Be patient, little Dotty; the pain will soon be over, and when we see you again, you will be trudging merrily to school with a book under your arm.

THE END