"Oh, misery me!" cried Rachel, tumbling backward, the pair of eyes in her hand. "Why don't you have 'em put back in your doll, Phronsie?"
"Because these are broken," said Phronsie, hanging on to the top with one hand, while she reached out the other, "and Grandpapa took my child down and got her new eyes."
"Well, what makes you save these?" said Rachel, sitting straight again; "they're no use, Phronsie, now they're broken. Throw them away, do."
"No, no," protested Phronsie, holding the pair of eyes very closely in her warm little palm, "they were my child's; I'm going to keep them always."
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Rachel faintly, "you'll never set up your cupboard if you're going to put everything back again the same as it was. Well, pull out the next thing, Phronsie; it's your turn."
So Phronsie set her two treasures down in a niche in the big boulder, and leaned over the door of the cupboard.
"I'm going clear back," she announced, running her fat little arm as far as it would go, to bring it out with something round in the middle of her palm.
"What is it?" asked Rachel curiously. "Whatever in all this world,
Phronsie?"—at the queer little wad in Phronsie's hand.
"Oh, that?" said little Dick, before Phronsie could answer; "that's what the squirrel gave us, a lo—ong time ago, Rachel."
"The squirrel gave you?" she cried. "I suppose it's a nut," she added carelessly.