Jasper followed the direction of Polly's finger. There sat Phronsie on a grassy bank a little above them, with one of the fattest Marken babies in her lap. A variegated group of natives was near by, watching her intently. But Phronsie didn't appear to notice them.
"Polly, I wish we had a baby just like this," sighed Phronsie, giving motherly pats to the stout little legs dangling down from her lap.
"Come, children,"—Grandpapa emerged from the little old house,—"we must hurry on, else we sha'n't get through this island. Come, Phronsie—goodness me!" as he saw how she was occupied.
"May I carry her?" begged Phronsie, staggering to her feet—"she's mine"—and dragging the Marken baby up with her.
"Goodness me! no, child!" exclaimed Grandpapa, in horror. "Put her down, Phronsie; she's ever so much too heavy for you, dear." He put forth a protesting hand, but the tears ran down Phronsie's cheeks and fell on the baby's stiff white cap. At that old Mr. King was quite gone in despair.
"Phronsie," Polly bent over and whispered close to the wet little cheek, "don't you see Grandpapa is feeling badly? I'm afraid he will be sick, Phronsie, if he is unhappy."
Phronsie dropped the pudgy little hand, and threw herself into old Mr.
King's arms. "Don't be sick, Grandpapa," she wailed, struggling with
her tears. "I'd rather not have my baby, please; I don't want her.
Please be all well, Grandpapa, dear."
XV
MR. KING DOES HIS DUTY
Polly's face appeared over Adela's shoulder. "Don't!" said Adela, shrinking away into the corner of the big sofa, and putting her hands over something she held in her lap.