"That isn't the way, children," said aunt Madge; "you'll have to imagine how she looked; or, as Fly would say, you must make believe. Touch her hair with gold. There, see how it shines! Take off those spectacles; smooth out the wrinkles; make her face as soft as a rose-leaf, as soft as your face, Fly; dwindle her figure down, down, till she looks about ten years old. Now do you see her? Isn't she pretty? How the sparkles come and go in her eyes! Wouldn't you like to have a romp with her in the new-mown hay? For she hasn't any more rheumatism in her back than a butterfly. Her feet are dancing this minute in pink kid slippers with rosettes on them as big as poppies, and she wears a white muslinet gown, with a pink calico petticoat. Wasn't that the way she was dressed at the wedding, father Parlin?" "How should I know?" replies grandpa. "I don't remember what she had on; but she was the spryest, prettiest little girl in town; and she hasn't a child--no, nor a grandchild either--that begins to be equal to her." "Except Flyaway," cries Prudy; "you forget that Flyaway is just like her!" * * * * * This is not a bad place to leave our friends. I did intend to tell about another member of the circle; but I believe I will not, for I may put him into another story; that is, if you would like to hear about William Parlin,--I wonder if you would?--in a book we will call "LITTLE GRANDFATHER."