"But he didn't hear you, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "when the man knocked your hat off."
"Oh, well, he knew enough what I wanted," said Mr. King, who, now that he had let out his belief, was going to support it by all the reasons in his power. "No, no, Phronsie, it won't do; the fellow was an impostor, and we must just accept the fact, and make the best of it, my child."
"But he told a lie," said Phronsie, in horror, unable to think of anything else.
"Well." Mr. King had no words to say on that score, so he wisely said nothing.
"That poor man told a lie," repeated Phronsie, as if producing a wholly fresh statement.
"There, child, I wouldn't think anything more of it," said Grandpapa, soothingly, patting her little hand.
"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "I've given away my child, and she's sick because she fell and hurt her, and there isn't any little girl, and—and—that poor man told a lie!" And she flung herself up against Grandpapa's waistcoat, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Old Mr. King looked wildly around for Polly. And as good fortune would have it, in she ran. This wasn't very strange, for Polly kept nearly as close to Phronsie in these days, as Grandpapa himself.
"Here, Polly," he called brokenly, "this is something beyond me. You must fix it, child."
"Why, Phronsie!" exclaimed Polly, in dismay, and her tone was a bit reproachful. "Crying? Don't you know that you will make Grandpapa very sick unless you stop?"