"This will never do," said the patient artist, almost in despair. "Hold your little chin up, there's a lady. Don't put it in your neck. Now! Ready!"
But at the critical moment there was a jerk, and Flyaway cried out,—
"I've got a sneeze; but, O, dear, I can't sneeze it."
"Why, where's that head of yours, little Tot? I declare, I believe it goes on wires, like a jumping-jack."
"My head's wrong side up," said Flyaway, mournfully; "my mother said it was."
Mr. Poindexter laughed: it was impossible to be vexed with such a gentle child as Flyaway. "Really, my young friends," said he, rubbing his stained fingers through his hair, "I believe I shall be obliged to give it up for the present. Have the child's mother come with her to-morrow, and we'll do better, I am sure."
With the likenesses of the other girls he succeeded very well; and Prudy and Dotty were glad to find, that after paying for theirs, they each had ten cents left.
"Now, Fly, we will go to aunt Martha's."
But Fly was amusing herself by scraping dirt out of the cracks of her boots with a bit of glass.
"Dotty won't be to aunt Marfie's. I don't want to stay where Dotty isn't."