“Only a boy!  In a fair way to learn a useful lesson, too.  Let me keep my temper!  If I scold, I spoil the whole.”

They entered the office, and left with the editor this advertisement:—­

“Lost.—­Between Prospect Park and Fulton Ferry, a porte-monnaie, marked ‘Horace S. Clifford,’ containing thirty-five dollars.  The finder will be suitably rewarded by leaving the same at No. ——­, Cor.  Fifth Ave. and ——­ Street.”

“It is no matter about advertising Prudy’s purse, it was so shabby,” said Aunt Madge; and on their way back to the ferry-house she bought her another.

“O, thank you, auntie, darling,” said Prudy; “and thank you, too, Horace, for losing my old one; it wasn’t fit to be seen.  And here is a whole dollar inside!  O, Aunt Madge, are you an angel?”

“Prue, you deserve your good luck; you don’t come down on a fellow, hammer and tongs, because he happens to meet with an accident.”

“Horace,” said Dotty, meekly, “are you willing to carry my gloves?”

“Yes, to be sure; but you don’t want to go home bare-handed—­do you?”

“Why, I was thinking how nice ’twould be, Horace, to have you take ’em, and lose ’em, and me have a new pair.  There’s a hole in the thumb.”

This little sally amused everybody, and Horace had the grace not to be sensitive, though the laugh was against him.

“Another queer day,” said he, when they were at last at home again.  “I don’t know what will become of us all, if we keep on like this.”

The poor boy was trying his best to brave it out; but Aunt Madge could see that his heart was sore.

“Lost every cent I’m worth,” mused he, turning his coat-pocket inside out, and scowling at it.  “Got to be a beggar as long as I stay in New York!”

The whole party were tired, and Horace’s gloom seemed to fill the parlor like a fog, and make even the gas look dim.

“I feel dreffly,” said Fly, curling her head under her brother’s arm, like a chicken under its mother’s wing—­a way she had when she was troubled.  “I feel just zif I didn’t love nobody in the world, and there didn’t nobody love me.”

This brought Horace around in a minute, and called forth a pickaback ride.

“Music! let us have music,” said Aunt Madge, flying to the piano.  “When little folks grow so cold-hearted, in my house, that they don’t love anybody, it’s time to warm their hearts with some happy little songs.  Come, girls!”

She played a few simple tunes, and the children all sang till the fog of gloom had disappeared, and the gas burned brightly once more.

Half an hour afterwards, just as Fly was told she ought to be sleepy, because her bye-low hymn had been sung,—­“Sleep, little one, like a lamb in the fold,”—­and she had answered that she “couldn’t be sleepy, athout auntie would hurry quick to come in with a drink of water,” there was a strange arrival.  Nathaniel, the waiting man, ushered into the parlor a droll little old woman, dressed in a short calico gown, with gay figures over it as large as cabbages; calf-skin shoes; and a green pumpkin hood, with a bow on top.