"Shan't I tell you a story, dear?" said she.
"Yes, um; tell 'bout a long baby--no, a long story 'bout a short
baby."
"Well, once there was a king, and he had a daughter--"
"O, no, gamma, not that! Tell me 'bout baby that _didn't_ be on the
bul-yushes; I don't want to hear 'bout _Mosey_!"
Grandma smiled, and wondered if people, in the good old Bible days,
were in the habit of using pet names, and if Pharaoh's daughter ever
called the Hebrew boy "Mosey." She was about to begin another story,
when Flyaway said, "Guess I'll go out, now," and slid off the bed.
There was an orange on the table. She took it, held it behind her, and
walked quickly to the door. Looking back, she saw that her
grandmother was watching her.
"What you looking at, gamma? 'Cause I'm are goin' to bring the ollinge
right back."
And so she did, but not because it was wrong to keep it. Flyaway had
no conscience, or, if she had any, it was very small, folded up out of
sight, like a leaf-bud on a tree in the spring.
"Ask Ruthie to wash your face and hands, and then come right back to
grandma and hear the story.
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