Phronsie drew a long breath, then stood up and began to hop up and down on her stair.
"Oh, Polly," she cried, clapping her hands, "I'm going to have a little silk bag, I truly am, Polly, all my own—oh!"
"My goodness me, Phronsie!" cried Polly, seizing her arms, "you'll roll down and break your neck, most likely."
"And I'll take my cushion-pin"—Phronsie leaned over and put her face close to Polly's cheek—"and I'll sew on it for the poor children, I will," and she began to hop up and down again.
"Take care, and stop dancing," laughed Polly.
"And it shall be a pink bag," said Phronsie, dreadfully excited; "make it a pink bag, do, Polly."
"Oh, I don't know that I can do that," said Polly slowly, "because you know I took my piece of pink ribbon Auntie gave me, for that sachet case I'm making for the fair. But never mind, child"—as she saw a sorry little droop to Phronsie's mouth—"I'll find another somewhere, and it will be nice, even if it isn't pink."
"It will be nice," echoed Phronsie confidently, as long as Polly said so, and she clasped her hands.
"And come on, Pet, we'll go and find the ribbon and make the bag now, so as to be all ready." Polly flew up from her stair. "Pick up your doll, and give me your hand. Here we are!"—as they ran up to the top.
"I very much wish you wouldn't call her my doll," panted Phronsie, as they reached the last step; "she's my child, Polly."