But now! The shrill cry of distress called everybody's attention to her pew.

The whole audience were looking up from their prayer-books in astonishment.
"Tut, tut! My dear! My love! Hush, my babe, lie still,--O, can't you stop crying ?" Horace, too, was trying to quiet the child; but Fly sincerely believed she was bleeding to death; so what did she care for proprieties?
"O, my shole!" piped she aloud, plunging both hands into the stream of blood, and afterwards into her hair.
Thus, by the time Mrs.Pragoff and Horace got her into the aisle, she looked as if she had been murdered.
"I wish I was twenty-one," thought Horace, bitterly.

"Mrs.Fixfax had no business steaming this child.

I believe it has gone to her brain." The party of five marched out of church, for Mrs.Pragoff did not wish to make a second sensation by coming back after Prudy and Dotty.
"I never go with Fly but I get mortified," thought Miss Dimple; "and now, O dear, I shan't hear those Christmas chimes!" But Prudy was thinking how sorry she was for Mrs.Pragoff and Horace.
They all went into a druggist's, and, after a few minutes spent in the use of a sponge and water, poor Fly ceased to look like a murdered victim, but very much like a marble image.

When they reached Mrs.
Pragoff's, she was placed on a sofa, and for once in her life lay still.
Horace bent over her with the wildest anxiety, thinking some terrible crisis was coming.