Prudy wondered why the man still kept whispering, but presumed there was
some reason why the loss of Dotty aught to be kept secret. She looked at
the long lumber-wagon, partly filled with barrels, and was on the point
of replying, "No, thank you, sir," when a bright idea occurred to her.

"Do you s'pose, sir, I can get to my sister any quicker if I ride?"

"Well, can't say as to that, my dear," whispered the soap-man, shoving a
barrel to one side, "seeing as I don't know where your sister's to be
found; but there's one thing certain--you'll get over the ground a good
deal quicker riding than you would on your feet. I'm going to Pearl
Street before I stop."

"Then I'll ride, sir, if you'll please lift me in," whispered poor
Prudy, trembling with fear of the uncouth wagon and strange man, yet
resolved to risk anything for Dotty's sake.

There was no seat in the wagon, and Prudy was obliged to stand up.

"Hold on to me, sissy," said the kind-hearted soap-boiler. "I reckon you
ain't used to riding in this kind of shape. Why, lawful sakes, your face
is as white as a pond-lily!"

"It's my heart," whispered Prudy, faintly; "it _whisks_ just like the
eggs Norah beats in a bowl. But it's no matter, sir; I don't think I'm
afraid,--or only a little speck," added she, in a lower whisper; for,
though anxious to be polite, she did not mean to tell anything but the
"white truth."

The little girl's gentle ways won the soap-boiler's heart at once.