ay but he wanted
her to get down when he said the word. He tried to frighten her by
saying he should not stop the horse again.

"Don't want to stop," she answered, taking the musk from her pocket and
holding it to his nose. "Smell?"

He started back and made a wry face.

"What is that?" he asked.

"My 'fumery."

"Your fumery."

"It is. Bertie caught it in a trap."

"_That's_ what I have been smelling all along."

"Yes," said Flora.

"I thought there was a musquash somewhere near."

"It is only me."

She took a prolonged sniff, and restored the precious perfume to her
pocket.

"Mamma don't like it, and Grandma don't. I do. And Dinah does. And you
do."

"Not much, I don't."

"Smells good?"

"Good and strong, yes. Now little musquash, farewell."

"No," said Flora.

"Look here, miss. Won't you catch it for running away?"

"Why, Mr. Podge! What a funny man! Ain't running away. Taking a ride.
Runned away once. To Deacon Brown. Had dinner and a nap."

"Didn't you tell me you was one of the Sunday children?"

"I did."

"Don't believe it."

Flora's eyes flashed. Not believe that she was one of the Sunday
children!

"I don't," he repeated solemnly. "They know how to behave. Sunday
children don't run away, they don't, and good girls mind their mother."

"I do."

"A tough one to mind you are."

"Do, too, Mr. Podge. Want to go home now."

"You can't stop the horse."

"I can. Whoa!"

But he did not stop, for his master slyly urged him on. She was in
earnest now: she really wanted to go home, and she called "Whoa!" again,
but the old horse still jogged on.

"I told you so," said the driver.

"Oh, Mr. Horse!" she cried in alarm. "Won't you please to stop. I want
to get out. Just one minute, dear Mr. Horse, if you please."

This appeal seemed to touch his feelings, and, to her great delight, he
stopped.

"He knows what politeness is, he does," said the driver. "Now look sharp
before you get down, and see if you ever were in this place before."

Flora did as she was bid, and she saw orchards white with blossoms, a
rustic bridge, a few scattering houses; but not one familiar object.
They had passed out of the village, and the country was strange to her.
In vain she looked for papa's house, or Grandma's; they were nowhere to
be seen.

"Well, Miss Fiddle-de-dee?"

Flora sighed heavily.

"You are lost, eh?"

"Can't see papa's house. Too bad!"

"I thought so."

He took up the reins,