Hardly conscious of the strange faces about her, the child flew into the middle of the room, rubbed some more sleep out of her eyes, and began to sing,-- "Little zephyrs, light and gay, First to tell us of the spring." She seemed to float on air.

There was not a bit of her body that was not in motion, from the tuft of hair a-top of her head to the soles of her twinkling boots.

Now here, now there, head nodding, hands waving, feet flying.
"Encore," cried the delighted hostess.

"Please, darling, let us hear that last verse again." Mrs.Pragoff was curious to know what sort of jargon she made of the lines,-- "Where the modest violets grow, And the fair anemone." Fly repeated it with an exquisite sweetness which charmed the whole house:-- "Where the modest _vilets_ grow, And the _fairy men no more know me_." "The fairies do all know you, darling." exclaimed Mrs.Pragoff, kissing her rapturously.
"Your feet are more light than a faery's feet, Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet." "There! Dancing on bubbles!" said Prudy aside to Horace.

"That's just what I always wanted to call it, but never knew how." On the whole it was a pleasant evening, and Mrs.Pragoff had no reason to regret having given the little party.