"You'd better both go to bed by eight," said Mrs. Gray. "Dora has a night-key, and can let herself in."
"O mother, mayn't I sit up till nine? I want to copy off my compersition."
"Well, yes, if Flaxie is willing, and it isn't too cold in the kitchen. But don't forget to tuck her into her little crib by eight. I've moved it close to my bed, where you are to sleep."
"And is Preston goin' to sleep in the downstairs room? O, goody!" cried Flaxie, crushing her mother's bonnet with a parting hug.
"Yes, darling; and you'll find your supper of baked apples and milk on the table, covered with a napkin, and something nice beside, I won't say what."
"I know—squinch-perserve," said Flaxie.
"Good-bye till to-morrow, my precious children. Don't give Dodo any trouble; and, Preston, don't forget what father said about the fires."
It wasn't likely Preston would forget. He was one of those slow-brained, faithful little fellows, who can't learn a spelling-lesson, but who are pretty much at home with every thing except books.
"He was always so different from Flaxie. We shall never be able to leave Flaxie in charge of any thing; you might as well set a squirrel to watch a weasel," said Dr. Gray.
"I know it," replied his wife; "but I never saw a child six years old that could take charge of any thing, did you?"