“You must have left them in the seat you were in.  You’d better go after them, my daughter, and then come back and brush your hair.”

“O, papa, I’d rather go to Indiana with my hands naked.  That woman doesn’t like me.”

Mr. Parlin gave a glance at the wretched little face, and went for the gloves himself.  They were not to be found, though Mrs. Lovejoy was very polite indeed to assist in the search.  They had probably fallen out of the window.

“Don’t take it to heart, my little Alice,” said Mr. Parlin, who was very sorry to see so many shadows on his young daughter’s face so early in the day.  “We’ll buy a new pair in Boston.  We will think of something pleasant.  Let us see:  when are you going to read your first letter?”

“O, Susy said the very last thing before I got to Boston.  You’ll tell me when it’s the very last thing?  I’m so glad Susy wrote it! for now I can be ’expecting it all the rest of the way.”

CHAPTER IV.

“PIGEON PIE POSTPONED.”

This is Susy’s letter, which lay in Mr. Parlin’s pocket-book, and which he gave his impatient little daughter fifteen minutes before the cars stopped:—­

     “MY DEAR LITTLE SISTER:  This is for you to read when you
     have almost got to Boston; and it is a story, because I know you
     will be tired.

“Once there was a wolf—­I’ve forgotten what his name was.  At the same time there were some men, and they were monks.  Monks have their heads shaved.  They found this wolf.  They didn’t see why he wouldn’t make as good a monk as anybody.  They tied him and then they wanted him to say his prayers, patter, patter, all in Latin.

     “He opened his mouth, and then they thought it was coming; but what
     do you think?  All he said was, ‘Lamb! lamb!’ And he looked where
     the woods were.

     “So they couldn’t make a monk of him, because he wanted to eat
     lambs, and he wouldn’t say his prayers.

     “Mother read that to me out of a blue book.

          “Good by, darling.  From
                         “SISTER SUSY.”

“What do you think of that?” said Mr. Parlin, as he finished reading the letter aloud.

“It is so queer, papa.  I don’t think those monkeys were very bright.”

“Monks, my child.”

“O, I thought you said monkeys.”

“No, monks are men—­Catholics.”

“Well, if they were men, I should think they’d know a wolf couldn’t say his prayers.  But I s’pose it isn’t true.”

“No, indeed.  It is a fable, written to show that it is of no use to expect people to do things which they have not the power to do.  The wolf could catch lambs, but he could not learn his letters.  So my little Alice can dress dollies, but she does not know how to take care of babies.”

“O, papa, I didn’t choke him very much.”