Morning came, and Fly was rather languid, as might have been expected after such a night.
"I don't see," mused Mrs. Fixfax, "where she caught this dreadful cold, unless it was your keeping the room so hot yesterday, children."
Fly hid her face in her brother's back hair, for she was riding pickaback down stairs.
"And can we go to see that Poland lady?" said Dotty.
"If you asked me, I answer, No," said Horace, bluntly. "At any rate, Fly mustn't stir a step out of the house to-day."
"I didn't ask you, Horace. I asked Mrs. Fixfax. She is the one that has the care of us."
"I really don't know what to say about it," replied the housekeeper, hesitating. "We will wait and see how she seems after breakfast."
"Rather a cool way of setting my opinion one side," thought Horace, indignantly.
Fly ate only two small buckwheat cakes, but seemed lively enough, as she always did when there was a prospect of going anywhere.
"I don't suppose it is exactly the thing, after steaming her so," said Mrs. Fixfax, as if talking to herself,—she did not even look at Horace;—"but really I don't know what else to do. I couldn't keep her at home unless the rest of the children staid; and if I did I presume she'd get killed some other way. She's one of the kind that's never safe, except in bed, with the door locked, and the key in your pocket."