"
And it wasn't why Flyaway lost her thumb-nail, either. She lost
that--or half of it--in the crack of the door. The poor little thumb
was very painful, and had to be put in a cot.
"It wearies me," said Flyaway; "it makes me afraid I shan't ever have
a nail on there again."
Her mother assured her she would. The same God who calls up the little
blades of grass out of the ground could make a finger-nail grow.
"Will He?" said Flyaway, smiling through tears; "but 'haps He'll
forget how it looks. Musn't I save a piece of my nail, mamma, and lay
it up on the shelf, so He can see it, and make the other one like it?"
Mrs. Clifford put the nail in her jewel-box, and I dare say it may be
there to this day.
Just as Flyaway, in her nightie, was having a frolic with Grace, there
was a sound of wheels. The stage, which Horace called the "Oriole"
because it had a yellow breast, was rolling into the yard.
"It's my mother--my mother," cried the three Parlins together.
Yes, and who was that little girl getting down just after her? Her hat
covered her eyes.
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