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“Poor Priscilla won’t have a wig or a parasol either, if you aren’t more careful of her,” said Dr. Carlyon, trying to rescue his eldest daughter’s curls from his younger daughter’s parasol.

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“NOW then, let’s change places,” said Loveday impatiently, as Priscilla’s last curl was freed.

“Oh no; you must wait until we have quite reached the top of the hill! You don’t want to make poor Betsy stand here with the carriage dragging her back all the time, do you?”

“I fink Betsy would like to stop and rest for a little while, and I am sure she wouldn’t mind. She is very strong, and I am not a bit heavy. I don’t suppose she feels whether I am in the carriage or not. Do you think she does?”

“She hears you, if she doesn’t feel you,” said Dr. Carlyon.

“Do you think that Priscilla and I and your medicine-case, all put together, weigh as much as you do, father?”

“I think that if we had waited a year or two before we chose a name for you, we should have called you ‘Chatterpie’ instead of Loveday.”