“Don't know,” said Joel, tugging at his shoe-string. “See—aren't these prime!” He held up a shining black shoe, fairly bristling with newness, for Polly to admire.
“Splendid,” she cried heartily; “but where are the boys?”
“They went after you,” said Davie, “after we came home with our shoes.”
“No, they didn't,” contradicted Joel, flatly; and sitting down on the floor he began to tie and untie his new possessions. “When we came home Ben drew us pictures—lots of 'em—don't you know?”
“Oh, yes,” said Davie, nodding his head, “so he did; that was when we all cried 'cause you weren't home, Polly.”
“He drawed me a be-yew-tiful one,” cried Phronsie, holding up her mangy bit; “see, Polly, see!”
“That's the little brown house,” said Davie, looking over her shoulder as Phronsie put it carefully into Polly's hand.
“It's all washed out,” said Polly, smoothing it out, “when you staid out in the rain.”
Phronsie's face grew very grave at that.
“Bad, naughty old rain,” she said, and then she began to cry as hard as she could.