CHAPTER X.
WAKING.
Flyaway was very much sleepier than either of her cousins, and really did not know where she was, or what she was doing. Lonnie Adams, a boy of Horace's age, tried to interest her. He made believe the old cat was a sheep, killed her with an iron spoon, and hung her up by the hind legs for mutton, all which Pussy bore like a lamb, for she had been killed a great many times, and was used to it. But it did not please Flyaway; neither did aunt Martha's collection of shells and pictures call forth a single smile. There was a beautiful clock in the parlor, and the pendulum was in the form of a little boy swinging; but Flyaway would not have cared if it had been a gallows, and the boy hanging there dead.
Uncle John took her on his knee, asked her what her name was, where she lived, and whom she loved best; but she only answered she "didn't know." She might have been Daniel in the lions' den, or Joseph in the pit, for all the difference to her.
"How very singular!" said aunt Martha. "I wish her mother would come. Do feel her pulse, John, and see if it is fever."
"Nothing of the kind," said uncle John, as the little one's head dropped on his shoulder. "Overcome by the heat; that's all. I'll just lay her down on the sofa."
When Mrs. Clifford came, she was surprised to find the child fast asleep. She would not have her wakened for dinner; so Flyaway missed her "secretary." But when it was three o'clock, and she still slept, Mrs. Clifford feared something was wrong, and decided to take her home. Uncle John had "Lightning Dodger" harnessed, and brought around to the door.
"Wake up, little daughter," said Mrs. Clifford; "we are going home now."
Flyaway looked around vacantly, her eyes as heavy as drenched violets.
"You must come again, and stay longer," said aunt Martha; "it is hardly polite not to let little girls have their dinners—do you think it is?"