Part 11 (1/2)
”She's my nice little girl, and I like her,” Phronsie was saying. ”Yes, I do, very much indeed, Grandpapa.”
”You do?”
”Yes, and I want her to stay here, Grandpapa. Please, may she?”
”Oh, dear!”
”_Please_, Grandpapa dear.” Phronsie put up one hand and tucked it softly under his chin. He seized it and covered it with kisses.
”Oh, my lamb--that wicked, careless Joanna!”
”What's the matter, Grandpapa?” Phronsie brought up her head to look at him with troubled eyes.
”Nothing--nothing, child; there, cuddle down again. Your mother is talking to the little girl, and she will fix up things. Oh, bless me!”
”Mamsie will fix up things, won't she, Grandpapa?” cooed Phronsie, wriggling her toes happily.
”Yes, dear.”
”Grandpapa,” said Phronsie, after a moment's silence only broken by a soft murmur of voices, for Mother Fisher had drawn her group to the further corner, ”I don't think my little girl has got a very nice place to live in.”
”Oh, Phronsie, child!” He strained her convulsively to his breast. ”There, there, lamb, Oh, I didn't mean to! Grandpapa won't hurt his little pet for the world.”
”You didn't hurt me this time,” said Phronsie, ”as much as you did before, Grandpapa dear.”
”Oh, my child! Grandpapa wouldn't hurt a hair of your blessed head. Oh, that dreadful Joanna!”
”I like my own little girl very much indeed,” said Phronsie, dismissing her own hurts to go on with her narrative. ”Yes, I do, Grandpapa,” she added decidedly, ”but I don't like the place she lived in. And, Grandpapa”--here she drew a long breath--”there was an old lady came in, and I don't think she was a nice old lady, I don't, Grandpapa.” Phronsie crept up a bit closer, if that were possible.
”What did she do, child?” He held his breath for the answer.
”She took hold of my arm,” said Phronsie, a s.h.i.+ver seizing her at the remembrance, and she burrowed deeper within the protecting arms, ”and she felt of my beads that Auntie gave me.”
”What else?” He scarcely seemed to ask the question.
”And my own little girl pulled me away, and she carried me home, most of the way, and I like her.” Phronsie brought herself up with an emphatic little nod, and smiled.
”That was good.”
Phronsie smiled radiantly. ”Wasn't it, Grandpapa!” she cried, in delight.
”And I want her to stay. May she? Oh, may she? She's my own little girl.”
”We'll see about it,” said old Mr. King, with a thought of the long welts on the thin arms, and the furious old woman.
”What's that noise?” asked Phronsie, suddenly lifting her head.
”Oh, a bird, maybe,” said the old gentleman, carelessly looking up to the vines swinging around the veranda. ”There, lay your head down again, child.”
”It didn't sound like a bird, Grandpapa. I thought some one was crying.”
Yet she put her yellow head obediently down, and didn't lift it again till Mother Fisher stood by the side of old Mr. King's chair.