The whole party were tired, and Horace's gloom seemed to fill the parlor like a fog, and make even the gas look dim.
"I feel dreffly," said Fly, curling her head under her brother's arm, like a chicken under its mother's wing—a way she had when she was troubled. "I feel just zif I didn't love nobody in the world, and there didn't nobody love me."
This brought Horace around in a minute, and called forth a pickaback ride.
"Music! let us have music," said Aunt Madge, flying to the piano. "When little folks grow so cold-hearted, in my house, that they don't love anybody, it's time to warm their hearts with some happy little songs. Come, girls!"
She played a few simple tunes, and the children all sang till the fog of gloom had disappeared, and the gas burned brightly once more.
Half an hour afterwards, just as Fly was told she ought to be sleepy, because her bye-low hymn had been sung,—"Sleep, little one, like a lamb in the fold,"—and she had answered that she "couldn't be sleepy, athout auntie would hurry quick to come in with a drink of water," there was a strange arrival. Nathaniel, the waiting man, ushered into the parlor a droll little old woman, dressed in a short calico gown, with gay figures over it as large as cabbages; calf-skin shoes; and a green pumpkin hood, with a bow on top.
"Good evening, ma'am," said Horace, rising, and offering her a chair. She did not seem to see very well, in spite of her enormous spectacles; for she took no notice of the chair, and remained standing in the middle of the floor.
The Pumpkin Hood