On High Street Prudy met a soap-man, just reentering his wagon at some one’s door.

“O, have you seen my little sister?” cried Prudy, pressing her hand against her heart.

“Your little sister?  And who may that be?” said the soap-man, in a deep whisper; for he had such a severe cold on his lungs that for six months he had not spoken a loud word.

“O, her name is Alice Wheelbarrow Parlin, sir,” whispered Prudy, in reply; “and she had on a pink dress, and her hair curls down her neck, and she has the brightest eyes, and two years and a half of age, sir.  O, where do you s’pose she’s gone to?”

In her concern for Dotty, Prudy had forgotten her usual fear of strangers.

“I’m sorry you’ve lost your sister,” whispered the soap-man; “but as you seem to be pretty well tired out, suppose you jump into my cart and ride with me.”

Prudy wondered why the man still kept whispering, but presumed there was some reason why the loss of Dotty aught to be kept secret.  She looked at the long lumber-wagon, partly filled with barrels, and was on the point of replying, “No, thank you, sir,” when a bright idea occurred to her.

“Do you s’pose, sir, I can get to my sister any quicker if I ride?”

“Well, can’t say as to that, my dear,” whispered the soap-man, shoving a barrel to one side, “seeing as I don’t know where your sister’s to be found; but there’s one thing certain—­you’ll get over the ground a good deal quicker riding than you would on your feet.  I’m going to Pearl Street before I stop.”

“Then I’ll ride, sir, if you’ll please lift me in,” whispered poor Prudy, trembling with fear of the uncouth wagon and strange man, yet resolved to risk anything for Dotty’s sake.

There was no seat in the wagon, and Prudy was obliged to stand up.

“Hold on to me, sissy,” said the kind-hearted soap-boiler.  “I reckon you ain’t used to riding in this kind of shape.  Why, lawful sakes, your face is as white as a pond-lily!”

“It’s my heart,” whispered Prudy, faintly; “it whisks just like the eggs Norah beats in a bowl.  But it’s no matter, sir; I don’t think I’m afraid,—­or only a little speck,” added she, in a lower whisper; for, though anxious to be polite, she did not mean to tell anything but the “white truth.”

The little girl’s gentle ways won the soap-boiler’s heart at once.  “What’s your fathers name, little dear?” inquired he, as they went clattering through the streets.

“His name is Mr. Edward Parlin.—­But O, I don’t see a single thing of Dotty!”

“Dotty!  Why, who is Dotty?” asked the man, turning about, and gazing at his little passenger with a look of curiosity.