Fly felt quite flattered.  It was the first time in her life any one had ever asked her to buy anything, and she thought she must have grown tall since she came from Indiana.  She put her fingers in her mouth, then took them out, and put them in her pocket.

“Here’s my porte-monnaie-ry,” said she, dolefully; “but I haven’t but two cents—­no more.  Hollis carried it off.”

“Well, well, run along, then.  Don’t you see you’re right in the way?”

Fly was surprised and grieved at the change in the man’s tone:  she had expected he would pity her for not having any money.

“Come here, you little lump of love,” called out a mellow voice; and there, close by, sat a wizened old woman, making flowers into nosegays.  She had on a quilted hood as soft as her voice, but everything else about her was as hard as the door-stone she sat on.

“See my beautiful flowers,” said the old crone, pointing to the table before her; “who cares for them jumping things over yonder?  I don’t.”

The flowers were tied in bouquets—­sweet violets, rosebuds, and heliotrope.  Fly, whose head just reached the top of the table, smelt them, and forgot the “little husband, for fifteen cents.”

“He’s a cross man, dearie,” said the old woman, lowering her voice, “or he wouldn’t have sent you off so quick, just because you hadn’t any money.  Now, I love little girls, and I’ll warrant we can make some kind of a trade for one of my posies.”

Fly smiled, and quickly seized a bouquet with a clove pink in it.

“Not so fast, child!  What you got that you can give me for it?  I don’t mind the money.  That old pocket-book will do, though ’tain’t wuth much.”

It was very surprising to Fly to hear her port-monnaie called old; for it was bought last week, and was still as red as the cheeks of the painted lady.

“I don’t dass to give folks my porte-monnaie-ry,” said she, clutching it tighter, but holding the flowers to her nose all the while.

“O, fudge!  Well, what else you got in your pocket?  A handkerchief?”

“No, my hangerfiss is in my muff.”

“That?  Why, there isn’t a speck o’ lace on it.  Nice little ladies always has lace.  Here’s a letter in the corner; what is it?”

“Hollis says it’s K; stands for Flyaway.”

“Well, you’re such a pretty little pink, I guess I’ll take it; but ‘tain’t wuth lookin’ at,” said the crafty old woman, who saw at a glance it was pure linen, and quite fine.

“Now run along, baby; your mummer will be waitin’ for you.”

Fly walked on slowly.  Ought she to have parted with her very best hangerfiss!

“Nice ole lady, loved little gee-urls; but what you s’pose folks was goin’ to cry into now?”

Tears started at the thought.  One of them dropped into the eye of the squirrel, who sat on the muff, peeping up into her face.

“Nice ole lady, I s’pose; but folks never wanted to buy my hangerfisses byfore!” thought Fly, much puzzled by the state of society in New York.  “And I’ve got some beau-fler flowers to my auntie’s house.  Wake up—­wake up!” added she, blowing open a pink rose-bud; “you’s too little for me.”