“Oh, I do!” cried Phronsie, hopping on one toe; “it's me!”
“Very well, then,” said Dr. Fisher, going to the bedroom door, “we'll lookout for to-morrow, then.”
To poor Polly, lying in the darkened room, or sitting up in the big rocking-chair—for Polly wasn't really very sick in other respects, the disease having all gone into the merry brown eyes—the time seemed interminable. Not to do anything! The very idea at any time would have filled her active, wide-awake little body with horror; and now, here she was!
“Oh, dear, I can't bear it!” she said, when she knew by the noise in the kitchen that everybody was out there; so nobody heard, except a fat, old black spider in the corner, and he didn't tell anyone!
“I know it's a week,” she said, “since dinnertime! If Ben were only well, to talk to me.”
“Oh, I say, Polly,” screamed Joel at that moment running in, “Ben's a-comin' down the stairs!”
“Stop, Joe,” said Mrs. Pepper; “you shouldn't have told; he wanted to surprise Polly.”
“Oh, is he!” cried Polly, clasping her hands in rapture; “mammy, can't I take off this horrid bandage, and see him?”
“Dear me, no!” said Mrs. Pepper, springing forward; “not for the world, Polly! Dr. Fisher'd have our ears off!”
“Well, I can hear, any way,” said Polly, resigning herself to the remaining comfort; “here he is! oh, Ben!”