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While Prudy was in Indiana visiting the Cliffords, and in the midst of her trials with mosquitoes, she said one day, - "I wouldn't cry, Aunt 'Ria, only my heart's breaking. The very next person that ever dies, I wish they'd ask God to please stop sending these awful skeeters. I can't bear 'em any longer, now, certainly." There was a look of utter despair on Prudy's disfigured face. Bitter tears were trickling from the two white puff-balls which had been her eyes; her forehead and cheeks were of a flaming pink, broken into little snow-drifts full of stings: she looked as if she had just been rescued from an angry beehive. Altogether, her appearance was exceedingly droll; yet Grace would not allow herself to smile at her afflicted little cousin. "Strange," said she, "what makes our mosquitoes so impolite to strangers! It's a downright shame, isn't it, ma, to have little Prudy so imposed upon? If I could only amuse her, and make her forget it!" "Oh, mamma," Grace broke forth again suddenly, "I have an idea, a very brilliant idea! Please listen, and pay particular attention; for I shall speak in a figure, as Robin says. There's a certain small individual who is not to understand." "I wouldn't risk that style of talking," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "or, if you do, your figures of speech must be very obscure, remember." "Well, ma," continued Grace with a significant glance at Prudy, "what I was going to say is this: We wish to treat certain young relatives of ours very kindly; don't we, now?-certain afflicted and abused young relatives, you know.