Bertie gave it to her, and as Grandma could not bear it in the house, she was obliged to take it out of doors.
"The air is better now, isn't it, Grandma?" said Bertie, feelingly.
It was not much better, though Grandma did not say so. The small particles were floating about, and she was inhaling them with every breath. She passed round the tarts as speedily as possible, and then the Little Pitchers were in a hurry to be off. But they did not carry all the musk away; they left enough to pervade Grandma's house for several days. But that was only a beginning. Everybody grew tired of the odor before the skin of the musk-rat was carried away and sold. There was musk everywhere, in doors and out; and wherever Flora was, the perfume was sickening. But she would not give it up. She carried the little sack, which had become dry and hard, in the pocket of her dress from morning until night, and mamma waited in vain for her to weary of it. At last it was banished from the house. Mamma decided that it could not longer be endured. Flora hid it somewhere in the garden, (the place was known only to herself and Dinah,) and every day enjoyed it as best she could, in the open air and alone. Even Charley and Bertie were tired of musk, and they tried first to coax and then to bribe Flora, without success. Finally they laughed at her, and called her a little cosset.
"I ain't that," she said to Charley, who gave her the name. She always doubted Charley. "I ain't anything but a little girl."
"And a cosset."
"No."
"You are turned out to grass, any how."
"Am I, Bertie?"
"Not exactly. We will play you are an exile."
"Well."