Susy could never bear to hear Prudy talk about going to God’s house.  Her conscience pricked her when she saw that the poor child was grieved; and she resolved, every time she was late, that she would never be late again.

Prudy had a great many odd fancies now:  among others, she had a fancy that she did not like the name of Prudy.

“Why; only think,” said she, “you keep a-calling me Prudy, and Prudy, and Prudy.  It makes my head ache, to have you say Prudy so much.”

“But, my dear child,” said Mr. Parlin, smiling, “it happens, unfortunately, that Prudy is your name; so I think you will have to try and bear it as well as you can.”

“But I can’t bear it any longer,” said the child, bursting into tears.  “Prudy is all lame and sick, and I never shall walk any more while you call me Prudy, papa.”

Mr. Parlin kissed his little daughters’s pale cheek, and said, “Then we will call you pet names; will that do?”

Prudy smiled with delight.

“I’ve thought of a real beautiful, splendid name,” said she.  “It is Rosy Frances Eastman Mary; ain’t it splendid?”

After this announcement, Prudy expected the family would be sure to call her Rosy Frances Eastman Mary; and, indeed, they were quite willing to please her, whenever they could remember the name.  They all supposed it was a fancy she would forget in a day or two; but, instead of that, she clung to it more and more fondly.  If any one offered her an orange, or roasted apple, and said, “Look, Prudy; here is something nice for you,” she would turn her face over to one side on the pillow, and make no reply.  If she wanted a thing very much, she would never accept it when she was addressed by the obnoxious name of Prudy.  Even when her father wanted to take her in his arms to rest her, and happened to say, “Prudy, shall I hold you a little while?” she would say, “Who was you a-talkin’ to, papa?  There isn’t any Prudy here!” Then her father had to humble himself, and ask to be forgiven for being so forgetful.

The child had a delicate appetite, and her mother tried to tempt it with little niceties; but, no matter what pains she took, Prudy relished nothing unless it was given to her as Rosy Frances, the little girl who was not Prudy.

“O, here is a glass of lemonade for you, Prudy; made on purpose for you,” Susy would say; “do drink it!”

“O, dear me, suz,” cried Prudy, with tears falling over her cheeks; “O, Susy, you plague me, and I never done a thing to you!  You called me Prudy, and I ain’t Prudy, never again!  Call me Rosy Frances Eastman Mary, and I’ll drink the lemonade.”

“You precious little sister,” said Susy, bending over her gently, “you’ll forgive me; won’t you, darling?”

“I’ll try to,” replied Prudy, with a look of meek forbearance, as she sipped the lemonade.

CHAPTER VII.

LITTLE TROUBLES.