“Oh, no, she don't have anything, Polly don't.”
“And what does Polly want most of all—do you know? see if you can tell me.” And the doctor put on the most alluring expression that he could muster.
“Oh, I know!” cried Phronsie, with a very wise look. “There now,” cried the doctor, “you're the girl for me! to think you know! so, what is it?”
Phronsie got up very gravely, and with one shoe half on, she leaned over and whispered in the doctor's ear:
“A stove!”
“A what?” said the doctor, looking at her, and then at the old, black thing in the corner, that looked as if it were ashamed of itself; “why, she's got one.”
“Oh,” said the child, “it won't burn; and sometimes Polly cries, she does, when she's all alone—and I see her.”
“Now,” said the doctor, very sympathetically, “that's too bad; that is! and then what does she do?”
“Oh, Ben stuffs it up,” said the child, laughing; “and so does Polly too, with paper; and then it all tumbles out quick; oh! just as quick!” And Phronsie shook her yellow head at the dismal remembrance.
“Do you suppose,” said the doctor, getting up, “that you know of any smart little girl around here, about four years old and that knows how to button on her own red-topped shoes, that would like to go to ride to-morrow morning in my carriage with me?