All she could do was to stare about her, cry, and act very cross, and then--go to sleep again.
But with aunt Madge it was quite different.

She slept like a cat, with one eye open.

Perhaps the reason she did not sleep more soundly, was, that she felt a care of little Prudy.

No matter when Prudy spoke to her, aunt Madge always answered.

She did not say, "O, dear, you've startled me out of a delicious nap!" She said, "Well, darling, what do you want ?" Prudy generally wanted to know when it would be morning?
When would the steamboat whistle?
What made it stay dark so long?
She wanted a drink of water, and _always_ wanted a story.
If aunt Madge had forgotten to provide a glass of water, she put on her slippers, lighted the little handled lamp, and stole softly down stairs to the pail, which Norah always pumped full of well-water the last thing in the evening.
Or, if Prudy fancied it would console her to have a peep at her beautiful doll which "would be alive if it could speak," why, down stairs went auntie again to search out the spot where Susy had probably left it when "she took it to show to some children." The many, many times that kind young lady crept shivering down stairs to humor Prudy's whims! Prudy could not have counted the times; and you may be sure aunt Madge never _would_.
Then the stories, both sensible and silly, which Prudy teased for, and always got! Aunt Madge poured them forth like water into the _sieve_ of Prudy's mind, which could not hold stories any better than secrets.