“Oh, but I must,” said Phronsie, energetically wriggling. “My poor sick man wants me, he does.” And flying out of her mother's arms, she ran up to Mr. King, and standing on tiptoe, said softly, “I'll rub your head, grandpa dear, poor sick man; yes I will.”
“And you're the best child,” cried the old gentleman, catching her up and marching over to the other side of the room where there was a lounging chair. “There now, you and I, Phronsie, will stay by ourselves. Then my head will feel better.”
And he sat down and drew her into his arms.
“Does it ache very bad?” said Phronsie, in a soft little voice. Then reaching up she began to pat and smooth it gently with one little hand, “Very bad, dear grandpa?”
“It won't,” said the old gentleman, “if you only keep on taking care of it, little Phronsie.”
“Then,” said the child, perfectly delighted, “I'm going to take all care of you, grandpa, always!”
“So you shall, so you shall!” cried Mr. King, no less delighted than she was. “Mrs. Pepper!”
“Sir?” said Mrs. Pepper, trying to answer, which she couldn't do very well surrounded as she was by the crowd of little chatterers. “Yes, Sir; excuse me what is it, sir?”
“We've got to come to an understanding about this thing,” said the old gentleman, “and I can't talk much to-day, because my headache won't allow it.”
Here the worried look came into Phronsie's face again, and she began to try to smooth his head with both little hands.