otty had learned, once for all, that her aunt was not to be
trifled with.

The child really was ashamed--thoroughly ashamed; but do you suppose
she admitted it to Horace? Not she. And he, so full of anguish
concerning the lost Fly, found not a word of fault; scarcely even
thought of his naughty cousin at all.

CHAPTER VII.

THE LOST FLY.

Now we must go back and see what has become of the little one.

At first her heart had swollen with rage. Anger had set her going, just
as a blow from a battledoor sends off a shuttlecock. And, once being
started, the poor little shuttlecock couldn't stop.

"Auntie gave me that skipt. Hollis is a very wicked boy; steals skipt
from little gee-urls. I don't ever want to see Hollis no more."

What she meant to do, or where to go, she had no more idea than the blue
clouds overhead. She had no doubt her brother was close behind, trying
to overtake her. Her sole thought was, that she "wouldn't ever see
Hollis no more." She knew nothing could make him so unhappy as that.
"I'll lose me, and then how'll he feel?"

"Lose me!" A wild thought, gone in a moment; but meanwhile she was
already lost.

"I hope auntie won't give Hollis nuffin to eat, 'cause he's took away my
skipt; nuffin to eat but meat and vertato, athout any pie."

Flyaway shook her head so hard, that the "war-plume" under her bonnet
would have nodded, if the air could have got at it. "Why, where's
Hollis?" said she, looking back, and finding, to her surprise, he was
not to be seen. "I spected he'd come. I thought I heard him walking
ahind me."

Flyaway's anger had died out by this time. It never lasted longer than
a Fourth of July torpedo.

"He didn't know I runned off. Guess I'll go back, and he'll give me the
skipt; and then I'll forgive him all goody."

A very nice plan; only, instead of going back, she turned a corner, and
tripped along towards University Place. She had twisted her head so much
in looking for Horace, that it was completely turned round. And,
besides, a little farther on was a man playing a harp, and a small boy a
violin. Fly paused and listened, till she no longer remembered Horace or
the "skipt." She forgot this was New York, and dreamed she had come to
fairy-land. Her soul was full of music. Happy thoughts about nothing in
particular made her smile and clap her hands. Birds, flowers, Santa
Clauses, Flipperties, and "pepnits" seemed to hover near. Something
beautiful was just going to h