s greasy; but Flora did not mind
that. She grasped it firmly, and was lifted to the narrow seat, and then
the lame horse started into a jog. Beside being narrow, the seat was so
short that Flora had to sit very close to the greasy driver, and her
pretty blue dress was not improved by contact with his frock, which was
blue, also.

"Papa's horse does not dance that way," she said, regretfully.

"It isn't every horse that can be trained to that sort of thing,"
returned the driver, gravely. "Mine, now, is one out of a thousand. How
will your pa swap?"

"I wish he would," she answered earnestly, for the first time looking
her companion full in the face. "Why!" she exclaimed, joyfully, "It is
you, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes! it's me. Have you just found that out?"

"I thought you was a stranger."

"You did, eh!"

"I did."

"I knew you was a stranger all the time."

"But I ain't."

"No?"

"No. I am Flora Lee."

"And who am I?"

"You are Mr. Podge."

"Podge?"

"You are."

"Not if I know myself."

"You are, too, Mr. Hodge Podge. That's what you told me. Don't you
remember your own name?"

He remembered all about it now, and he laughed so heartily at the
recollection, that he dropped the reins, and had to get down to pick
them up, which pleased Flora very much. When the reins dropped, the
limping horse stood still.

"I didn't know it was you, Miss Fiddle-de-dee," he said, as he mounted
to his seat, and urged him into a jog again.

"How is Deacon Brown?"

"He is pretty well, I thank you. My name is Flora Lee."

"And how are all the Sunday children?"

"Oh! they are pretty well, I thank you too. And I am; and Dinah is. She
is asleep."

"You have had your face washed since I saw you last. That is the reason
I didn't know you. I never saw you with a clean face before."

"Hands, too," said Flora, holding out one plump hand. She was holding on
with the other.

"How we are slicked up!" he exclaimed, "and it isn't Sunday, either!"

CHAPTER XI.

SHE SAYS GOOD-BY TO THE SOAP MAN.

The readers of the Little Pitcher stories will recognize this young man.
Flora met him one day in a crowd around a peddler's wagon, drawn thither
by a poor blind kitten that had been brought to light from the depths of
the peddler's rag-bag. She had not forgotten him, but he never would
have thought of her again, if she had not addressed him by the odd name
he had given her as his own. That refreshed his memory, and he