Part 8 (2/2)
”N-o; I just happened to be peeking in there you know. But I came in an _omnibius_.”
”It is wonderful,” said Aunt Madge, looking puzzled, ”that you ever knew what omnibus to take.”
Dotty looked down to see if her boot was b.u.t.toned, and forgot to look up again. ”Well, _I_ shouldn't have known one _omnibius_, as you call it, from another,” said Prudy, lost in admiration. ”Why, Dotty, how bright you are! And there we were, so afraid about you, and spoke to a policeman to look you up.”
”I wouldn't let a p'liceman catch _me_,” said Dotty, tossing her head.
”But haven't you found Fly yet?”
They were at home by this time, and Horace was ringing the bell.
”No, the dear child is still missing; but the police are on her track,”
said Aunt Madge, looking at her watch. ”It is now one o'clock. Keep a good heart, Horace, my boy. John shall go straight to the telegraph office, and wait there for a despatch. Don't you leave us, dear; we can't spare you, and you can do no good.”
Horace made no reply, except to tap the heels of his boots together. He looked utterly crushed. A large city was just as strange to him as it was to Dotty, and he could only obey his aunt's orders, and try to hope for the best. Dotty seemed to be the only one who felt like saying a word, and she talked incessantly.
”O, what'd you send the p'lice after her for? To put her in the lockup, and make her cry and think she's been naughty? It's the awfulest city that ever I saw. Folks might send her home, if they were a mind to, but they won't. They don't care what 'comes of you. There's cars and stages going to which ways, and nothing but 'No Smoking,' inside. And I went and peeped in at a window, and there was _onions_! And how'd I know where to go to? There was a girl with a long curl, and she said, 'Go to the 'pothecary's;' and what would Fly have known where she meant? And he looked in a Dictionary, and put me in a stage,--I was going to tell you about that when I got ready,--and asked me if I had ten cents, and I had; and then I forgot what the number was, and that was the time I saw the onions, or I should have gone right into somebody's else's house.
And I knew there was a church with ivy round, but Fly don't know; she's nothing but a baby. And I should have thought, Horace Clifford, you might have given her that money! That was what made her run off; you was real cruel, and that's why I wouldn't mind what you said. And--and--”
”Hush,” said Aunt Madge, brus.h.i.+ng back a spray of fair curls, which the wind had tossed over her forehead. ”I don't allow a word of scolding in my house. If you don't feel pleasant, Dotty, you may go into the back yard and scold into a hole.”
Dotty stopped suddenly. She knew her aunt was displeased; she felt it in the tones of her voice.
”Dotty, the wind has been at play with your hair as well as mine.
Suppose we both go up stairs a few minutes?”
”There, auntie's going to reason with me,” thought Dotty, winding slowly up the staircase; ”I didn't suppose she was one of that kind.”
”No dear, I'm _not_ one of that kind,” said Mrs. Allen, roguishly; for she saw just what the child was thinking. ”'I come not here to talk.'
All I have to say is this: Disobey again, and I send you home immediately.”
”Yes'm,” said the little culprit, blus.h.i.+ng crimson. ”Now, brush your hair, and let us go down.” This was the only allusion Mrs. Allen ever made to the subject; but after this, she and Dotty understood each other perfectly. Dotty 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.
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