“I'm afraid those wouldn't quite answer the purpose,” said his mamma, smiling—“especially the last; yet we must think of something.”
But just here Mr. King thought it about time to take matters into his hands. So, with a great many chucklings and shruggings when no one was by, he had departed after breakfast one day, simply saying he shouldn't be back to lunch.
Polly sat in the drawing-room, near the edge of the twilight, practicing away bravely. Somehow, of all the days when the home feeling was the strongest, this day it seemed as if she could bear it no longer. If she could only see Phronsie for just one moment! “I shall have to give up!” she moaned. “I can't bear it!” and over went her head on the music rack.
“Where is she?” said a voice over in front of the piano, in the gathering dusk—unmistakably Mr. King's.
“Oh, she's always at the piano,” said Van. “She must be there now, somewhere,” and then somebody laughed. Then came in the loudest of whispers from little Dick, “Oh, Jappy, what'll she say?”
“Hush!” said one of the other boys; “do be still, Dick!”
Polly sat up very straight, and whisked off the tears quickly. Up came Mr. King with an enormous bundle in his arms; and he marched up to the piano, puffing with his exertions.
“Here, Polly, hold your arms,” he had only strength to gasp. And then he broke out into a loud burst of merriment, in which all the troop joined, until the big room echoed with the sound.
At this, the bundle opened suddenly, and—out popped Phronsie!
“Here I'm! I'm here, Polly!”