from pain, or because she really did not know what else to do with
herself.

It was worst at night. Hour after hour, she would lie awake, and listen
to the ticking of the clock. Susy thought it a pitiable case, when
_she_, heard the clock strike _once_; but little Prudy heard it strike
again and again. How strangely it pounded out the strokes in the night!
What a dreary sound it was, pealing through the silence! The echoes
answered with a shudder. Then, when Prudy had counted one, two, three,
four, and the clock had no more to say at that time, it began to tick
again: "Prudy's sick! Prudy's sick! O, dear me! O, dear me!"

Prudy could hardly believe it was the same clock she saw in the daytime.
She wondered if it felt lonesome in the night, and had the blues; or
what _could_ ail it! The poor little girl wanted somebody to speak to in
these long, long hours. She did not sleep with Susy, but in a new
cot-bed of her own, in aunt Madge's room; for, dearly as she loved to
lie close to any one she loved, she begged now to sleep alone, "so
nobody could hit her, or move her, or joggle her."

It was a great comfort to have aunt Madge so near. If it had been Susy
instead, Prudy would have had no company but the sound of her breathing.
It was of no use to try to wake Susy in the dead of night. Pricking her
with pins would startle her, but she never knew anything even after she
was startled. 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,