s heaped over it.

"What makes 'em do it?" she asked, "he can't get to heaven through all
that dirt!"

But by and by, when days passed, and there was no longer a baby in
the house, Prudy began to think of him as one of the angels. And one
morning she told a beautiful dream which she thought she had had,
though she sometimes called her _thoughts_ dreams.

"O," said she, "I dreamed about my angel! He had stars all round his
head, and he _flowed_ in the air like a bird. There was ever so many
little angels with him, and some of 'em sang. They didn't sing
_sorry_; they was singing, 'The Little Boy that died.' And, aunt 'Ria,
I guess you wouldn't cry if you could see how happy they were!"

"No, no," sobbed poor aunt 'Ria, holding Prudy close in her arms,
which she said felt "_so_ empty" now, "it can't be right to cry, can
it, Prudy, when I _know_ my baby is so happy in heaven?"

CHAPTER XV

GOING HOME

It was now autumn. The trees couldn't keep green any longer, for their
time had come; so they just made the best of it, like sad faces
laughing through tears, and glowed and flushed in a perfect blaze of
glory, making believe they were having splendid times all by
themselves, and didn't care for what was coming.

The Parlin children had stayed a great deal longer than their parents
at first meant they should stay, and now they must really go back to
Portland.

The little cousins were sorry to part, for you know they had learned
to love one another dearly. Grace and Susy clung together till the
last moment.

"O Susy," sobbed Grace, "don't you forget these good times! Remember
to write, no matter how it looks. I wish I hadn't got to go 'way off
out West. I never did have such times in any place as we've had here
at grandma's."

"Nor I either," said Susy, looking sorrowfully at the barn, the seat
in the trees, and the clover patch. "Remember, you're coming back in
just two years. Won't it be splendid?--O dear, but two years is 'most
forever!" added Susy, suddenly breaking down.

"Good by, Prudy," said Horace, climbing into the stage-coach, quite
out of breath. He had run all the way to the post office just for the
sake of seeing her again.

"Good by, Prudy. You're the cunningest little spud! If you lived out
West I'd just go a-flyin'."

Nobody knew whether Horace cried or not, for nobody saw him till
dinner time, but then he looked very sober indeed. He and Grasshopper
had been building a fort, he said