"Polly, what is all this?" asked the old gentleman perplexedly, staring at one and the other.
"I don't know, Grandpapa," said Polly, the little white line still around her mouth; "she says Phronsie has been at her house, and——"
"Phronsie been at her house!" thundered the old gentleman.
"Yes, she has. An' I give her a five-o'clock tea," cried Rag, in a burst, who, thinking that she was probably now going to be killed, began to take pleasure in telling all she knew. "Swell folks does; I seen 'em plenty of times on th' avenoo, an' here, too"—she nodded toward the long French windows—"an' I got as good a right, I guess. An' she let me take her doll, an' I like her. An' we had an orful good time till Gran came in, an' then we lit out, an' I brung her home. Now what you goin' to do about it?" She folded her thin arms as well as she could, for Polly was still holding to one, and glared defiantly out of her sharp, black eyes.
"Oh, Grandpapa, her arms!" Polly was pointing to the long, red welts.
Rag turned as if shot, and twitched the ragged sleeves down, tucking the free arm behind her back. "Lemme go, you girl: you hain't no right to see 'em, it's none o' your business," she screamed at Polly. Old Mr. King had sunk into a chair. Phronsie, in his lap, was so busy in putting her face close to his, and telling him that it was really her own poor little girl, that she had failed to see the arms and the disclosures they had made.
"Go and get your mother," he said, after a breathing space. "Oh, stay! I can't hold her"—with a gesture of disgust.
"An' you ain't a-goin' to tetch me," declared Rag proudly; "no, sir-ee!"
"Well, Phronsie, you jump down and go and get your mother," Mr. King whispered, smoothing her yellow hair with a trembling hand.
"I will—I will," she cried gleefully, hopping out of his lap.