“Yes, some of them; I can’t remember all of them yet,” said Randy.
“Why don’t you take the book and read them?” said Prue.
“Because,” said Randy, “father’s got to look it over and see if it’s a good book first, mother says.”
“Why isn’t he ’fraid to read it, if p’r’aps, it isn’t good?” said the child, with such a funny expression on her face that Randy, who really did not know how to answer such a question, laughed, and said she thought it must be time to dress.
Up sprang little Prue, and out upon the floor. “You dress me first,” said she. So Randy put on the little one’s shoes and stockings, then, piece by piece, her other little garments, all the time silently admiring the round, dimpled arms, the roguish eyes, and tangle of short curls, and the sweet little mouth, honestly believing that no girl in all the world had so dear a little sister. Just as Randy turned to button the little dress, Prue uttered a joyous cry, and darted over to the window.
“Oh, come quick, quick!” she called. “See the butterfly almost coming in our window.” And sure enough, when Randy reached the window, there he was, a gorgeous fellow, with bright, golden wings, swinging up and down over a fresh rose-colored morning-glory.
“Oh!” cried Prue, “isn’t it the handsomest butterfly you ever saw?”
“Yes, and look at the dewdrops on the pink morning-glory,” said imaginative Randy; “I wonder if the necklace that the fairy queen wore looked as bright as that? In the picture in the book it looks just like strings and strings of beads.”
“I liked the beads and her dress, with a long train to it; but in the picture she didn’t have a nice face ’t all,” said Prue, the young critic.
“Oh, but she was bea-utiful,” said Randy. “She must have been, the story said so,” but just here Randy’s raptures over the heroine of the fairy tale were cut short by a loud call of “Randy! Randy! Prue! it’s time to come downstairs!”