“Oh, I don't know,” said Polly, “cause 'tis so; never mind now, Joel. Do you mean Prince, Phronsie?”
“No, I don't mean Princey,” said the child decisively; “I mean my sick man.”
“It's Jasper's father, I guess she means,” said Mrs. Pepper over in the corner; “but what in the world!”
“Yes, yes,” cried Phronsie, perfectly delighted at being at last understood, and hopping on one toe; “my sick man.”
“I shall give up!” said Polly, tumbling over in a chair, with the cake spoon in her hand, from which a small sticky lump fell on her apron, which Joel immediately pounced upon and devoured. “What do you want to bake, Phronsie?” she gasped, holding the spoon sticking up straight, and staring at the child.
“A gingerbread boy,” said the child, promptly; “he'd like that best; poor, sick man!” and she commenced to climb up to active preparations.
A LETTER TO JASPER
“Mamsie, what shall we do?” implored Polly of her mother.
“I don't know,” said her mother; “however did that get into her head, do you suppose?”