But Dotty had set her heart on a rag-baby which Susy had promised to dress, and Prudy was anxious that Susy should play several games of checkers with her.

“O, dear,” said the eldest sister, with the perplexed air of a mother who has disobedient little ones to manage.  “I think I have about as much as I can bear.  The children always make a fuss, just as sure as I want to go out.”

The old, impatient spirit was rising; that spirit which it was one of the duties of Susy’s life to keep under control.

She went into the bathing-room, and drank off a glass of cold water, and talked to herself a while, for she considered that the safest way.

“Have I any right to be cross?  Yes, I think I have.  Here Dotty woke me up, right in the middle of a dream, and I’m sleepy this minute.  Then Prudy is a little babyish thing, and always was—­making a fuss if I forget to call her Rosy Frances!  Yes, I’ll be cross, and act just as I want to.  It’s too hard work to keep pleasant; I won’t try.”

She walked along to the door, but, by that time, the better spirit was struggling to be heard.

“Now, Susy Parlin,” it said, “you little girl with a pony, and a pair of skates, and feet to walk on, and everything you want, ain’t you ashamed, when you think of that dear little sister you pushed down stairs—­no, didn’t push—­that poor little lame sister!—­O, hark! there is your mother winding up that hard splint!  How would you feel with such a thing on your hip?  Go, this minute, and comfort Prudy!”

The impatient feelings were gone for that time; Susy had swallowed them, or they had flown out of the window.

“Now Rosy Frances Eastman Mary,” said she, “if your splint is all fixed, I’ll comb your hair.”

The splint was made of hard, polished wood and brass.  Under it were strips of plaster an inch wide, which wound round and round the poor wounded limb.  These strips of plaster became loose, and there was a little key-hole in the splint, into which Mrs. Parlin put a key, and wound up and tightened the plaster every morning.  This operation did not hurt Prudy at all.

“Now,” said Susy, after she had combed Prudy’s hair carefully, and put a net over it, until her mother should be ready to curl it, “now we will have a game of checkers.”

Prudy played in high glee, for Susy allowed her to jump all her men, and march triumphantly into the king-row, at the head of a victorious army.

“There, now, Rosy,” said Susy, gently, “are you willing to let me go out riding?  I can’t play any more if I ride, for I must dress Dotty’s doll, and feed my canary.”

“O, well,” said Prudy, considering the matter, “I’m sick; I tell you how it is, I’m sick, you know; but—­well, you may go, Susy, if you’ll make up a story as long as a mile.”

Susy really felt grateful to Prudy, but it was her own gentle manner which had charmed the sick child into giving her consent.