But the day was not over yet.  The bright sun and blue sky were doing what they could to make a cheerful time of it, but it seemed as if Susy fell more deeply into trouble, as the hours passed on.

There are such days in everybody’s life, when it rains small vexations from morning till night, and when all we can do is to hope for better things to-morrow.

It was Wednesday; and in the afternoon, Flossy Eastman came over with a new game, and while the little girls, Flossy, Susy and Prudy were playing it, and trying their best to keep Dotty Dimple’s prying fingers and long curls out of the way, in came Miss Annie Lovejoy.

This was a little neighbor, who, as the children sometimes privately declared, was “always ’round.”  Mrs. Parlin had her own private doubts about the advantages to be derived from her friendship, and had sometimes gone so far as to send her home, when she seemed more than usually in the way.

Annie’s mother lived next door, but all Mrs. Parlin knew of her, was what she could see and hear from her own windows; and that little was not very agreeable.  She saw that Mrs. Love joy dressed in gaudy colors, and loaded herself with jewelry; and she could hear her scold her servants and children with a loud, shrill voice.

The two ladies had never exchanged calls; but Annie, it seemed, had few playmates, and she clung to Susy with such a show of affection, that Mrs. Parlin could not forbid her visits, although she watched her closely; anxious, as a careful mother should be, to make sure she was a proper companion for her little daughter.  So far she had never known her to say or do anything morally wrong, though her manners were not exactly those of a well-bred little girl.

This afternoon, when the new game was broken up by the entrance of Annie, the children began the play of housekeeping, because Prudy could join in it.  Susy found she enjoyed any amusement much more when it pleased the little invalid.

“I will be the lady of the house,” said Annie, promptly, “because I have rings on my fingers, and a coral necklace.  My name is Mrs. Piper.  Prudy, ­no, Rosy, ­you shall be Mrs. Shotwell, come a-visiting me; because you can’t do anything else.  We’ll make believe you’ve lost your husband in the wars.  I know a Mrs. Shotwell, and she is always taking-on, and saying, ‘My poor dear husband,’ under her handkerchief; just this way.”

The children laughed at the nasal twang which Annie gave to the words, and Prudy imitated it to perfection, not knowing it was wrong.

“Well, what shall I be?” said Susy, not very well pleased that the first characters had been taken already.

“O, you shall be a hired girl, and wear a handkerchief on your head, just as our girl does; and you must be a little deaf, and keep saying, ‘What, ma’am?’ when I speak to you.”

“And I,” said Florence, “will be Mr. Peter Piper, the head of the family.”

“Yes,” returned Annie, “you can put on a waterproof cloak, and you will make quite a good-looking husband; but I shall be the head of the family myself, and have things about as I please!”

“Well, there,” cried Flossy, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her cloak, “I don’t know about that; I don’t think it’s very polite for you to treat your husband in that way.”

Flossy wanted to have the control of family matters herself.

“But I believe in ‘Woman’s Rights,’” said Annie, with a toss of the head, “and if there’s anything I despise, it is a man meddling about the house.”

Here little Dotty began to cause a disturbance, by sticking a fruit-knife into the edges of the “what-not,” and making a whirring noise.

“I wouldn’t do so, Dotty,” said Susy, going up to her; “it troubles us; and, besides, I’m afraid it will break the knife.”

“I don’t allow my hired girl to interfere with my children,” said Annie, speaking up in the character of Mrs. Piper; “I am mistress of the house, I’d have you to know!  There, little daughter, they shan’t plague her; she shall keep on doing mischief; so she shall!”

Dotty needed no coaxing to keep on doing mischief, but hit the musical knife harder than ever, giving it a dizzy motion, like the clapper in a mill.

Prudy was quite annoyed by the sound, but did not really know whether to be nervous or not, and concluded to express her vexation in groans:  the groans she was giving in memory of the departed Mr. Shotwell, who had died of a “cannon bullet.”

“My good Mrs. Shotwell,” said Mrs. Piper, trying to “make conversation,” “I think I have got something in my eye:  will you please tell me how it looks?”

“O,” said Prudy, peeping into it, “your eye looks very well, ma’am; don’t you ’xcuse it; it looks well enough for me.”

“Ahem!” said Mrs. Piper, laughing, and settling her head-dress, which was Susy’s red scarf:  “are your feet warm, Mrs. Shotwell?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” replied Prudy, “I don’t feel ’em cold.  O, dear, if your husband was all deaded up, I guess you’d cry, Mrs. Piper.”

Susy and Flossy looked at each other, and smiled.  They thought Prudy seemed more like herself than they had known her for a long time.

“You must go right out of the parlor, Betsey,” said Mrs. Piper, flourishing the poker; “I mean you, Susy ­the parlor isn’t any place for hired girls.”

“Ma’am?” said Susy, inclining her head to one side, in order to hear better.

“O, dear! the plague of having a deaf girl!” moaned Mrs. Piper.  “You don’t know how trying it is, Mrs. Shotwell!  That hired girl, Betsey, hears with her elbows, Mrs. Shotwell; I verily believe she does!”

“O, no, ma’am,” replied Prudy; “I guess she doesn’t hear with her elbows, does she?  If she heard with her elbows, she wouldn’t have to ask you over again!”

This queer little speech set Mr. Piper and his wife, and their servant, all to laughing, and Betsey looked at her elbows, to see if they were in the right place.

“Will you please, ma’am,” said Prudy, “ask Betsey to hot a flatiron?  I’ve cried my handkerchief all up!”

“Yes; go right out, Betsey, and hot a flatiron,” said Mrs. Piper, very hospitably.  “Go out, this instant, and build a fire, Betsey.”

“Yes, go right out, Betsey,” echoed Mr. Piper, who could find nothing better to do than to repeat his wife’s words; for, in spite of himself, she did appear to be the “head of the family.”

“It was my darlin’ husband’s handkerchief,” sobbed Prudy.

“Rather a small one for a man,” said Mr. Piper, laughing.

“Well,” replied Prudy, rather quick for a thought, “my husband had a very small nose!”

Mrs. Piper tried to make more “conversation.”

“O, Mrs. Shotwell, you ought to be exceeding thankful you’re a widow, and don’t keep house!  I think my hired girls will carry down my gray hairs to the grave!  The last one I had was Irish, and very Catholic.”

Prudy groaned for sympathy, and wiped her eyes on that corner of her handkerchief which was supposed to be not quite “cried up.”

“Yes, indeed, it was awful,” continued Mrs. Piper; “for she was always going to masses and mass-meetings; and there couldn’t anybody die but they must be ‘waked,’ you know.”

“Why, I didn’t know they could be waked up when they was dead,” said Prudy, opening her eyes.

“O, but they only make believe you can wake ’em,” said Mrs. Piper; “of course it isn’t true!  For my part, I don’t believe a word an Irish girl says, any way.”

“Hush, my child,” she continued, turning to Dotty, who was now sharpening the silver knife on the edges of the iron grate.  “Betsey, why in the world don’t you see to that baby?  I believe you are losing your mind!”

“That makes me think,” said Prudy, suddenly breaking in with a new idea; “what do you s’pose the reason is folks can’t be waked up?  What makes ’em stay in heaven all the days, and nights, and years, and never come down here to see anybody, not a minute?”

“What an idea!” said Annie.  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ve been a thinkin’,” said Prudy, answering her own question, “that when God has sended ’em up to the sky, they like to stay up there the best.  It’s a nicer place, a great deal nicer place, up to God’s house.”

“O, yes, of course,” replied Annie, “but our play ­”

“I’ve been a thinkin’,” continued Prudy, “that when I go up to God’s house, I shan’t wear the splint.  I can run all over the house, and he’ll be willing I should go up stairs, and down cellar, you know.”

Prudy sighed.  Sometimes she almost longed for “God’s house.”

“Well, let’s go on with our play,” said Annie, impatiently.  “It’s most supper-time, Mrs. Shotwell.  Come in, Betsey.”

“Ma’am?” said Betsey, appearing at the door, and turning up one ear, very much as if it were a dipper, in which she expected to catch the words which dropped from the lips of her mistress.  “Betsey, have you attended to your sister ­to my little child, I mean?  Then go out and make some sassafras cakes, and some eel-pie, and some squirrel-soup; and set the table in five minutes:  do you hear?”

“Ma’am?” said the deaf servant; “what did you say about ginger-bread?”

Susy did not like her part of the game; but she played it as well as she could, and let Annie manage everything, because that was what pleased Annie.

“O, how stupid Betsey is!” said Mr. Piper, coming to the aid of his wife.  “Mrs. Piper says eel-jumbles, and sassafras-pie, and pound-cake; all made in five minutes!”

Here everybody laughed, and Prudy, suddenly remembering her part, sighed, and said, ­

“O, my darlin’ husband used to like jumble-pie!  I’ve forgot to cry for ever so long!”

Susy began to set the table, and went into the nursery for some cake and cookies, which were kept in an old tin chest, on purpose for this play of housekeeping, which had now been carried on regularly every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, for some time.

Susy opened the cake-chest, and found nothing in it but a few dry cookies:  the fruit-cake was all gone.  Who could have eaten it?  Not Flossy, for she had a singular dislike for raisins and currants, and never so much as tasted fruit-cake.  Not Prudy, for the poor little thing had grown so lame by this time, that she was unable to bear her weight on her feet, much less to walk into the nursery.  Dotty could not be the thief.  Her baby-conscience was rather tough and elastic, and I suppose she would have felt no more scruples about nibbling nice things, than an unprincipled little mouse.

But, then Dotty couldn’t reach the cake-chest; so she was certainly innocent.

Then Susy remembered in a moment that it was Annie:  Annie had run into the house morning and night, and had often said, “I’m right hungry.  I’m going to steal a piece of our cake!”

So it seemed that Annie had eaten it all.  Susy ran back to Prudy’s sitting-room, where her little guests were seated, and said, trying not to laugh, ­

“Please, ma’am, I just made some eel-jumbles and things, and a dog came in and stole them.”

“Very well, Betsey,” said Mrs. Piper, serenely; “make some more.”

“Yes, make some more,” echoed Mr. Piper; and added, “chain up that dog.”

“But real honest true,” said Susy, “the fruit-cake is all gone out of the chest.  You ate it up, you know, Annie; but it’s no matter:  we’ll cut up some cookies, or, may be, mother’ll let us have some oyster-crackers.”

“I ate up the cake!” cried Annie; “It’s no such a thing; I never touched it!” Her face flushed as she spoke.

“O, but you did,” persisted Susy; “I suppose you’ve forgotten!  You went to the cake-chest this morning, and last night, and yesterday noon, and ever so many more times.”

Annie was too angry to speak.

“But it’s just as well,” added Susy, politely; “you could have it as well as not, and perfectly welcome!”

“What are you talking about?” cried Annie, indignantly; for she thought she saw a look of surprise and contempt on Flossy’s face, and fancied that Flossy despised her because she had a weakness for fruit-cake.

“I wonder if you take me for a pig, Susy Parlin!  I heard what your mother said about that cake!  She said it was too dry for her company, but it was too rich for little girls, and we must only eat a teeny speck at a time.  I told my mamma, and she laughed, to think such mean dried-up cake was too rich for little girls!”

Susy felt her temper rising, but her desire to be polite did not desert her.

“It was rich, nice cake, Annie; but mother said the slices had been cut a great while, and it was drying up.  Let’s not talk any more about it.”

“O, but I shall talk more about it,” cried Annie, still more irritated; “you keep hinting that I tell wrong stories and steal cake; yes, you do! and then you ain’t willing to let me speak!”

All this sounded like righteous indignation, but was only anger.  Annie was entirely in the wrong, and knew it; therefore she lost her temper.

Susy had an unusual amount of self-control at this time, merely because she had the truth on her side.  But her dignified composure only vexed Annie the more.

“I won’t stay here to be imposed upon, and told that I’m a liar and a thief; so I won’t!  I’ll go right home this very minute, and tell my mother just how you treat your company!”

And, in spite of all Susy could say, Annie threw on her hood and cloak, and flounced out of the room; forgetting, in her wrath, to take off Susy’s red scarf, which was still festooned about her head.

“Well, I’m glad she’s gone,” said Flossy, coolly, as the door closed with a slam.  “She’s a bold thing, and my mother wouldn’t like me to play with her, if she knew how she acts!  She said ‘victuals’ for food, and that isn’t elegant, mother says.  What right had she to set up and say she’d be Mrs. Piper?  So forward!”

After all, this was the grievous part of the whole to Flossy, ­that she had to take an inferior part in the play.

“But I’m sorry she’s gone,” said Susy, uneasily.  “I don’t like to have her go and tell that I wasn’t polite.”

“You was polite,” chimed in little Prudy, from the sofa; “a great deal politer’n she was!  I wouldn’t care, if I would be you, Susy.  I don’t wish Annie was dead, but I wish she was a duck a-sailin’ on the water!”

The children went back to the game they had been playing before Annie came; but the interest was quite gone.  Their quick-tempered little guest had been a “kill-joy” in spite of her name.

But the afternoon was not over yet.  What happened next, I will tell you in another chapter.