Phronsie's little hand stole out from over her mouth where she had been trying to hold the sobs back, and up to give a trembling pat on old Mr. King's cheek.
"Bless you, my child," cried Grandpapa, quite overcome, so that Polly said more reproachfully, "Yes, very sick indeed, Phronsie, unless you stop this minute. You ought to see his face, Phronsie."
Phronsie gathered herself up out of his arms, and through a rain of tears looked up at him.
"Are you sick, Grandpapa?" she managed to ask.
"Yes, dear; or I shall be if you don't stop crying, Phronsie," said Mr.
King, pursuing all the advantage so finely gained.
"I'll stop," said Phronsie, her small bosom heaving. "I really will,
Grandpapa."
"Now, you are the very goodest child," exclaimed Polly, down on her knees by Grandpapa's side, cuddling Phronsie's toes, "the very most splendid one in all this world, Phronsie Pepper."
"And you'll be all well, Grandpapa?" asked Phronsie, anxiously.
"Yes, child," said old Mr. King, kissing her wet face; "just as well as
I can be, since you are all right."
"And, oh, Grandpapa, can't we go to Fontainebleau to-day?" begged Polly.