"
"You are an exile," said Charley, "because you cannot go into Grandma's
house."
"Am I, Bertie?"
"Yes, dear."
It was true. She could not go into Grandma's house. She had to choose
between Grandma and the perfumery. But she could stay out on the
door-stone, as the musk-rat had done; and when Grandma talked to her
from the window, she was not obliged to hold a handkerchief to her
nose, as she did when the musk-rat was there. She well knew how to make
amends to the dear child for her cruelty in keeping her out of doors;
and such tempting sweetmeats passed through the window, and such
wonderful shapes of gingerbread, that Flora was very happy in her
banishment. The little exile was not wholly deprived of society, for it
happened, fortunately, that the black baby had no sense of smell.
Whether she had lost it or was born without it, Flora never knew; but
she did not possess it, and so was not annoyed by the odor that troubled
everybody else. It was not long before she was as highly perfumed as her
mistress, and could not be tolerated in the house even for a nap. The
black baby was in disgrace, and she was knocked about so roughly that
her complexion was spoiled and her fine figure very much injured. Flora
had serious thoughts of sending her to be repaired; but she wondered
how she got so many bumps. She did not know that everybody took the
liberty of tossing her out whenever she was found in doors. It was a
common thing to come upon her in unexpected places.
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