"See my beautiful flowers," said the old crone, pointing to the table
before her; "who cares for them jumping things over yonder? I don't."

The flowers were tied in bouquets--sweet violets, rosebuds, and
heliotrope. Fly, whose head just reached the top of the table, smelt
them, and forgot the "little husband, for fifteen cents."

"He's a cross man, dearie," said the old woman, lowering her voice, "or
he wouldn't have sent you off so quick, just because you hadn't any
money. Now, I love little girls, and I'll warrant we can make some kind
of a trade for one of my posies."

Fly smiled, and quickly seized a bouquet with a clove pink in it.

"Not so fast, child! What you got that you can give me for it? I don't
mind the money. That old pocket-book will do, though 'tain't wuth much."

It was very surprising to Fly to hear her port-monnaie called old; for
it was bought last week, and was still as red as the cheeks of the
painted lady.

"I don't _dass_ to give folks my porte-monnaie-ry," said she, clutching
it tighter, but holding the flowers to her nose all the while.

"O, fudge! Well, what else you got in your pocket? A handkerchief?"

"No, my hangerfiss is in my muff."

"That? Why, there isn't a speck o' lace on it. Nice little ladies always
has lace. Here's a letter in the corner; what is it?"