Prudy said she had wrinkled hair, and she knew it; but the wrinkles “wouldn’t come out.”

Grandma Read sat one evening by the coal-grate, holding a letter in her hand, and looking into the glowing fire with a thoughtful expression.  Susy came and sat near her, resting one arm on her grandma’s lap, and trying in various ways to attract her attention.

“Why, grandma,” said she, “I’ve spoken to you three times; but I can’t get you to answer or look at me.”

“What does thee want, my dear?  I will try to attend to thee.”

“O, grandma, there are ever so many things I want to say, now mother is out of the room, and father hasn’t got home.  I must tell somebody, or my heart will break; and you know, grandma dear, I can talk to you so easy.”

“Can thee?  Then go on, Susy; what would thee like to say?”

“O, two or three things.  Have you noticed, grandma, that I’ve been just as sober as can be?”

“For how long, Susan?”

“O, all day; I’ve felt as if I couldn’t but just live!”

Grandma Read did not smile at this.  She knew very well that such a child as Susy is capable of intense suffering.

“Well, Susan, is it about thy sister Prudence?”

“O, no, grandma! she’s getting; better; isn’t she?”

“Are thy lessons at school too hard for thee, Susan?”

Mrs. Read saw that Susy was very reluctant about opening her heart, although she had said she could talk to her grandmother “so easy.”

“No, indeed, grandma; my lessons are not too hard.  I’m a real good scholar—­one of the best in school for my age.”

This was a fact.  Some people would have chidden Susy for it; but Mrs. Read reflected that the child was only telling the simple truth, and had no idea of boasting.  She was not a little girl who would intrude such remarks about herself upon strangers.  But when she and her grandma were talking together confidentially, she thought it made all the difference in the world; as indeed it did.

“I have a great deal to trouble me,” said Susy, and the “evening-blue” of her eyes clouded over, till there were signs of a shower.  “I thought my pony would make me happy as long as I lived; but it hasn’t.  One thing that I feel bad about is—­well, it’s turning over a new leaf.  When New Year’s comes, I’m going to do it, and don’t; so I wait till my birthday, and then I don’t.  It seems as if I’d tried about a thousand New Years and birthdays to turn over that leaf.”

Grandma smiled, but did not interrupt Susy.

“I think I should be real good,” continued the child, “if it wasn’t such hard work.  I can’t be orderly, grandma—­not much; and then Dotty upsets everything.  Sometimes I have to hold my breath to keep patient.

“Well, grandma, my birthday comes to-morrow, the 8th of April.  I like it well enough; only there’s one reason why I don’t like it at all, and that is a Bible reason.  It’s so dreadful that I can’t bear to say it to you,” said Susy, shuddering, and lowering her voice to a whisper; “I don’t want to grow up, for I shall have to marry Freddy Jackson.”