But with aunt Madge it was quite different.  She slept like a cat, with one eye open.  Perhaps the reason she did not sleep more soundly, was, that she felt a care of little Prudy.  No matter when Prudy spoke to her, aunt Madge always answered.  She did not say, “O, dear, you’ve startled me out of a delicious nap!” She said, “Well, darling, what do you want?” Prudy generally wanted to know when it would be morning?  When would the steamboat whistle?  What made it stay dark so long?  She wanted a drink of water, and always wanted a story.

If aunt Madge had forgotten to provide a glass of water, she put on her slippers, lighted the little handled lamp, and stole softly down stairs to the pail, which Norah always pumped full of well-water the last thing in the evening.

Or, if Prudy fancied it would console her to have a peep at her beautiful doll which “would be alive if it could speak,” why, down stairs went auntie again to search out the spot where Susy had probably left it when “she took it to show to some children.”

The many, many times that kind young lady crept shivering down stairs to humor Prudy’s whims!  Prudy could not have counted the times; and you may be sure aunt Madge never would.

Then the stories, both sensible and silly, which Prudy teased for, and always got!  Aunt Madge poured them forth like water into the sieve of Prudy’s mind, which could not hold stories any better than secrets.  No matter how many she told, Prudy insisted that she wanted “one more,” and the “same one over again.”

It touched Susy to the heart to see how much her little sister suffered, and she spent a great deal of time at first in trying to amuse her.  Aunt Madge told stories in the night; but Susy told them in the daytime, till, as she expressed it, her “tongue ached.”  She cut out paper dolls when she wanted to read, and played go visiting, or dressed rag babies, when she longed to be out of doors.  But while the novelty lasted, she was quite a Florence Nightingale.

Her Wednesday and Saturday after-noons were no longer her own.  Before Prudy’s lameness, Susy had used her new skates a great deal, and could now skim over the ice quite gracefully, for a little girl of her age.  The reason she learned to skate so well, was because she was fearless.  Most children tremble when they try to stand on the ice, and for that very reason are nearly sure to fall; but Susy did not tremble in the face of danger:  she had a strong will of her own, and never expected to fail in anything she undertook.

She had spent half of her short life out of doors, and almost considered it lost time when she was obliged to stay in the house for the rain.

Mrs. Parlin kept saying it was high time for her eldest daughter to begin to be womanly, and do long stints with her needle:  she could not sew as well now as she sewed two years ago.

But Mr. Parlin laughed at his wife’s anxiety, and said he loved Susy’s red cheeks; he didn’t care if she grew as brown as an Indian.  She was never rude or coarse, he thought; and she would be womanly enough one of these days, he was quite sure.