Part 17 (1/2)

”Hoh! I'm not going to,” declared Percy, drawing himself up in great state.

”Then I will go myself,” said Jasper, flinging down a handful of letters, to hurry off.

”Joel,” said Polly, in a sorry little voice, and turning away from the table, ”now you will spoil everything, and we've just got to feeling good.

How can you, Joey!”

”I didn't mean--” began Joel, turning his back on her, while he winked very hard, ”I didn't mean to, Polly.”

Percy dug the toe of his shoe into the rug, and looked down on the floor.

”Then run after Jasper,” cried Polly; ”hurry, and tell him so.”

”I will,” cried Joel, plunging off, and Percy, being left alone, as Van had slid away to another group when he saw how things were going on, concluded to follow. And presently Jasper came back.

”It's all right, Polly,” he nodded brightly to her, and they fell to work.

And in a minute or two, Joel came back with Percy, carrying the basket, a big market affair, between them. And when he saw what fun they were having over it, for they were both laughing merrily, Van wished he had gone.

And seeing his dismal face, Jasper sent him after a ball of twine. And then Phronsie wanted to get something, and little d.i.c.k teased to go too, so Grandpapa suggested they should go after some extra pairs of scissors.

”And Mamsie will let us take hers out of her workbasket, I guess,” cried Phronsie. ”Let us ask her, Grandpapa dear.”

”Oh, you better stop working, Mrs. Fisher.” Old Mr. King popped his white head in at the library door. There sat Mother Fisher by the table, mending away as usual, for the stockings never seemed to be quite done. ”And come into Jasper's den and see how fine we all are!” he added gayly.

”Yes, Mamsie, do come,” chirped Phronsie, running her head in between him and the door-casing to plead.

”Yes, Mamsie, do come,” echoed little d.i.c.k, who would do and say everything that Phronsie did.

”You see, you've simply got to come,” laughed Grandpapa.

”And may we have your scissors, Mamsie?” Phronsie now deserted old Mr.

King, to run over to the big workbasket.

”My scissors?” repeated Mother Fisher. ”Why, Phronsie, child, what are you going to do with them?”

”We're going to cut letters,” said Phronsie, with an important air, her fingers already in the basket, which, standing on tiptoe, she had pulled quickly over toward her in her eagerness. ”And may we have your scissors, Mamsie?”

”Take care,” warned Mother Fisher, but too late. Over went the big basket, and away rattled all the things, having a perfectly beautiful time by themselves over the library floor.

”Bless me!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed old Mr. King, while little d.i.c.k laughed right out.

Phronsie stood quite still, the color all out of her round cheeks. Then her bosom heaved, and she darted over to lay her head in Mother Fisher's lap.

”Oh, I didn't mean to, Mamsie,” she wailed.

”Oh, deary me! bless me!” exclaimed Grandpapa, in the greatest consternation, and leaning over the two.

”There, there, don't mind it, deary.” Mother Fisher was smoothing the yellow hair.