“Why, how did that kitty get in here?” said auntie, as a loud mewing was heard.  “I certainly shut her out before we came up stairs.”

Dotty ran round the room, with one boot on, and Prudy in her stockings, helping their aunt in the search.  The kitten was not under the bed, or in either of the closets, or inside the curtains.

“Look ahind the pendlum,” said Fly, laughing and skipping about in high glee; “look ahind the pendlum; look atween the pillow-case.”

Still the mewing went on.

“O, here is the kitty—­I’ve found her,” said auntie, suddenly seizing Fly by the shoulders, and stopping her mocking-bird mouth.  “Poor pussy, she has turned white—­white all over!”

“You don’t mean to say that was Fly Clifford?” cried Prudy.

“Shut her up, auntie,” said Dotty Dimple; “she’s a kitty.  I always knew her name was Kitty.”

Fly ran and courtesied before the mirror in her nightie.

“O, Kitty Clifford, Kitty Clifford,” she cried, “when’ll you be a cat?”

“Pretty soon, if you can catch mice as well as you can mew,” laughed auntie; “but look you, my dear; are you going to bed to-night? or shall I shut you down cellar?”

“Don’t shut me down cellow, auntie,” cried the mocking-bird, crowing like a chicken; “shut me in the barn with the banties.”

Next moment it occurred to the child that this style of behavior was not very “speckerful;” so she hastily dropped on her knees before her auntie, and began to say her prayers.  The change was so sudden, from the shrill crow of a chicken to the gentle voice of a little girl praying, that no one could keep a sober face.  Prudy ran into the closet, and Dotty laughed into her handkerchief.

“There, now, that’s done,” said Flyaway, jumping up as suddenly as she had knelt down.  “Now I must pray Flipperty.”

And before any one could think what the child meant to do, she had dragged out her dolly, and knelt it on the rug, face downward, over her own lap.

“O, the wicked creature!” whispered Dotty.  But Aunt Madge said nothing.

“Pray,” said the little one, in a tone of command.  Then, in a fine, squeaking voice, Fly repeated a prayer.  It was intended to be Flipperty’s voice, and Flipperty was too young to talk plain.

“There, that will do,” said Aunt Madge, her large gray eyes trying not to twinkle; “did she ever say her prayers before?”

“Yes, um; she’s a goody girl—­when I ’member to pray her!”

“Well, dear, I wouldn’t ‘pray her’ any more.  It makes us laugh to see such a droll sight, and nobody wishes to laugh when you are talking to your Father in heaven.”

“No’m,” replied Flyaway, winking her eyes solemnly.

But when the “three abed” had been tucked in and kissed, Fly called her auntie back to ask, “How can Flipperty grow up a goody girl athout she says her prayers?”

There was such a mixture of play and earnestness in the child’s eyes, that auntie had to turn away her face before she could answer seriously.