go to?  There was a girl with a long curl, and she said, ’Go to the ‘pothecary’s;’ and what would Fly have known where she meant?  And he looked in a Dictionary, and put me in a stage,—­I was going to tell you about that when I got ready,—­and asked me if I had ten cents, and I had; and then I forgot what the number was, and that was the time I saw the onions, or I should have gone right into somebody’s else’s house.  And I knew there was a church with ivy round, but Fly don’t know; she’s nothing but a baby.  And I should have thought, Horace Clifford, you might have given her that money!  That was what made her run off; you was real cruel, and that’s why I wouldn’t mind what you said.  And—­and—­”

“Hush,” said Aunt Madge, brushing back a spray of fair curls, which the wind had tossed over her forehead.  “I don’t allow a word of scolding in my house.  If you don’t feel pleasant, Dotty, you may go into the back yard and scold into a hole.”

Dotty stopped suddenly.  She knew her aunt was displeased; she felt it in the tones of her voice.

“Dotty, the wind has been at play with your hair as well as mine.  Suppose we both go up stairs a few minutes?”

“There, auntie’s going to reason with me,” thought Dotty, winding slowly up the staircase; “I didn’t suppose she was one of that kind.”

“No dear, I’m not one of that kind,” said Mrs. Allen, roguishly; for she saw just what the child was thinking. “‘I come not here to talk.’  All I have to say is this:  Disobey again, and I send you home immediately.”

“Yes’m,” said the little culprit, blushing crimson.  “Now, brush your hair, and let us go down.”  This was the only allusion Mrs. Allen ever made to the subject; but after this, she and Dotty understood each other perfectly.  Dotty had learned, once for all, that her aunt was not to be trifled with.

The child really was ashamed—­thoroughly ashamed; but do you suppose she admitted it to Horace?  Not she.  And he, so full of anguish concerning the lost Fly, found not a word of fault; scarcely even thought of his naughty cousin at all.

CHAPTER VII.

THE LOST FLY.

Now we must go back and see what has become of the little one.

At first her heart had swollen with rage.  Anger had set her going, just as a blow from a battledoor sends off a shuttlecock.  And, once being started, the poor little shuttlecock couldn’t stop.

“Auntie gave me that skipt.  Hollis is a very wicked boy; steals skipt from little gee-urls.  I don’t ever want to see Hollis no more.”

What she meant to do, or where to go, she had no more idea than the blue clouds overhead.  She had no doubt her brother was close behind, trying to overtake her.  Her sole thought was, that she “wouldn’t ever see Hollis no more.”  She knew nothing could make him so unhappy as that.  “I’ll lose me, and then how’ll he feel?”