As if Mrs. Fixfax didn't know, and wasn't that very minute laughing over the "tight biscuit" and low-spirited cake!
CHAPTER VII.
A FLY IN TRINITY CHURCH.
The children went to bed that night cheered by a remark which Mrs. Fixfax dropped as if by accident.
"The cook is to fry buckwheat cakes in the morning. I dare say you would like omelettes, too. Do you drink chocolate?"
"She takes it for granted we are going to eat down stairs," thought Prudy. And now her troubles were over. Life bloomed before her once more like a garden of roses.
Horace did not rest remarkably well. In the first place, the bed was too warm. Mrs. Fixfax had rolled Fly into a big bundle, with nothing out but the end of her nose, and was toasting her with soapstones.
"Buried alive," Horace said, "with gravestones at her head and feet."
"I'm all of a personation," gasped the child. "My mamma never did me so, Hollis. She gave me little tinty tonty pills,—sugar clear through,—not the big ones Miss Fixfix eats."