Part 10 (2/2)

”It seems to be a little girl,” said Grandpapa, peering at the stranger.

”Yes, it's my little girl,” said Phronsie happily, ”and she's come to play with me, Grandpapa.”

”Oh, my goodness me!” exclaimed Mr. King, stepping backward and drawing Phronsie closer.

”I ain't come. _She_ brung me,” said the girl, pointing with a thumb over at Polly; ”tain't my fault; she made me.”

”Polly, what is all this?” asked the old gentleman perplexedly, staring at one and the other.

”I don't know, Grandpapa,” said Polly, the little white line still around her mouth; ”she says Phronsie has been at her house, and----”

”_Phronsie been at her house!_” thundered the old gentleman.

”Yes, she has. An' I give her a five-o'clock tea,” cried Rag, in a burst, who, thinking that she was probably now going to be killed, began to take pleasure in telling all she knew. ”Swell folks does; I seen 'em plenty of times on th' avenoo, an' here, too”--she nodded toward the long French windows--”an' I got as good a right, I guess. An' she let me take her doll, an' I like her. An' we had an orful good time till Gran came in, an' then we lit out, an' I brung her home. Now what you goin' to do about it?” She folded her thin arms as well as she could, for Polly was still holding to one, and glared defiantly out of her sharp, black eyes.

”Oh, Grandpapa, her arms!” Polly was pointing to the long, red welts.

Rag turned as if shot, and twitched the ragged sleeves down, tucking the free arm behind her back. ”Lemme go, you girl: you hain't no right to see 'em, it's none o' your business,” she screamed at Polly. Old Mr. King had sunk into a chair. Phronsie, in his lap, was so busy in putting her face close to his, and telling him that it was really her own poor little girl, that she had failed to see the arms and the disclosures they had made.

”Go and get your mother,” he said, after a breathing s.p.a.ce. ”Oh, stay! I can't hold her”--with a gesture of disgust.

”An' you ain't a-goin' to tetch me,” declared Rag proudly; ”no, sir-ee!”

”Well, Phronsie, you jump down and go and get your mother,” Mr. King whispered, smoothing her yellow hair with a trembling hand.

”I will--I will,” she cried gleefully, hopping out of his lap.

”Oh, don't send her away.” All the defiance dropped out of Rag's face and manner, and she whimpered miserably. ”She's th' only nice one there is here. Don't let her go.”

”She's coming right back, little girl,” said old Mr. King kindly. He even smiled. But the girl had hung her head, so she didn't see it, and she blubbered on.

”I'll bring Mamsie to see my poor little girl,” Phronsie kept saying to herself over and over, as she scuttled off, and in a very few minutes Mother Fisher was out on the veranda in obedience to old Mr. King's summons.

”It's beyond me”--the old gentleman waved his hand at Rag--”you'll have to unravel it, Mrs. Fisher. Here, Phronsie, get up in my lap.” He strained her so tightly to him, as Phronsie hopped into her accustomed nest, that she looked up.

”Oh, Grandpapa!” she exclaimed.

”Did I hurt you, child?” he said, in a broken voice.

”A little, Grandpapa dear,” she said.

”Well--oh, Lord bless me! I can't talk, child,” he finished brokenly.

”Are you sick, Grandpapa?” she asked, sitting straight to look at him anxiously. ”Does your head ache? I'll smooth it for you,” and she began to pat his white hair.

”Oh, no, child, my head doesn't ache. There, sit still, dear, that's all I want.” So Phronsie cuddled up within his arms, feeling quite sure that now Mamsie had her own poor little girl, everything would be all right.

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