As a last resort, she gave the little screamer some pop-corn. Why not?

It refused to be comforted with other devices. How should she know that it was unable to chew, and was in the habit of swallowing b.u.t.tons, beads, and other small articles whole?

Baby clutched at the puffy white kernels, and crowed. It knew now, for the first time, what it had been crying for. There was a moment of peace, during which Master Freddie pushed a handful of corn as far as the trap-door which opened into his throat. Then there was a struggle, a gasp, a throwing up of the little hands; the trap-door had opened, but the corn had not dropped through; there was not s.p.a.ce enough. In other words, Freddy was choking.

The young nurse was so frightened that she almost let the small sufferer slip out of her arms. She screamed so shrilly that half a dozen people started from their seats to see what was the matter. Of course the sleepy woman was awake in a moment. All she said, as she took the child out of Dotty's arms, was this:--

"You good-for-nothing, careless little thing! Don't you know any better than to choke my baby?"

As Dotty really supposed the little one's last hour had come, and she herself had been its murderess, her distress and terror are not to be told. She paced the aisle, wringing her hands, while Mrs. Lovejoy put her finger down Freddie's throat and patted his back.

In a very short time the mischief was undone; the child caught its breath, and blinked its little watery eyes, while its face faded from deep magenta to its usual color of dough.

Dotty was immensely relieved.

"Bess its 'ittle heart," cried Mrs. Lovejoy, pressing it close to her travelling-cape, while several of the pa.s.sengers looked on, quite interested in the scene. "Did the naughty, wicked girlie try to choke its muzzer's precious baby? We'll w'ip her; so we will! She shan't come near my lovey-dovey with her snarly hair."

Mrs. Lovejoy's remarks p.r.i.c.ked like a nosegay of thistles. They were not only sharp in themselves, but they were uttered with such evident displeasure that every word stung.

Dotty was creeping away with her head down, her "snarly hair" veiling her sorrowful eyes, when she remembered her hat, and meekly asked Mrs.

Lovejoy to restore it.

"Take it," was the ungracious reply, "and don't you ever offer to hold another baby till you have a little common sense."

Dotty walked away with her fingers in her mouth, more angry than grieved, and conscious that all eyes were upon her.

"I didn't mean to scold you, child," called the woman after her; "only you might have killed my baby, and I think you're big enough to know better."

This last sentence, spoken more gently, was intended to heal all wounds; but it had no such effect. Dotty was sure everybody had heard it, and was more ashamed than ever. She had never before met with any one so ill bred as Mrs. Lovejoy. She supposed her own conduct had been almost criminal, whereas Mrs. Lovejoy was really much more at fault than herself. A woman who has no tenderness for a well-meaning little girl, no forgiveness for her thoughtless mistakes, can never be regarded as a lady.

Thus, for the second time that day, Dotty had met with misfortune.

Her father knew nothing of what had occurred, and she had not much to say when he offered a penny for her thoughts.

"I oughtn't to have given that baby any corn," said she, briefly; "but he didn't choke long."

"Where are your gloves, child?"

Dotty looked in her pocket, and shook her head.

"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 a.s.sist 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."

"I was only telling you I do not think you at all to blame. Little girls like you are not expected to have judgment like grown women. If you only do the best you know how, it is all that should be required of you."

Dotty's face emerged from the cloud. She looked away down the aisle at Mrs. Lovejoy, who was patting the uninteresting baby to sleep.

"Well," thought she, her self-esteem reviving, "I wish that woman only could know I wasn't to blame! I don't believe _she_ could have take care of that baby when she was six years old."

"Here we are at Boston," said Mr. Parlin. "Is your hat tied on? Keep close to me, and don't be afraid of the crowd."

Dotty was not in the least afraid. She was not like Prudy, who, on the same journey, had clung tremblingly to her father at every change of cars. In Dotty's case there was more danger of her being reckless than too timid.

They went to a hotel. Mr. Parlin's business would detain him an hour or two, he said; after that he would take his little daughter to walk on the Common; and next morning, bright and early, they would proceed on their journey.