Phronsie smiled radiantly. "Wasn't it, Grandpapa!" she cried, in delight.
"And I want her to stay. May she? Oh, may she? She's my own little girl."
"We'll see about it," said old Mr. King, with a thought of the long welts on the thin arms, and the furious old woman.
"What's that noise?" asked Phronsie, suddenly lifting her head.
"Oh, a bird, maybe," said the old gentleman, carelessly looking up to the vines swinging around the veranda. "There, lay your head down again, child."
"It didn't sound like a bird, Grandpapa. I thought some one was crying."
Yet she put her yellow head obediently down, and didn't lift it again till
Mother Fisher stood by the side of old Mr. King's chair.
"Well, is the conference over?" he asked.
"Yes," said Mrs. Pepper. Her lips had a little white line around them, too, like that on Polly's mouth, and the black eyes had a strange expression.
Phronsie popped her head up like a bird out of its nest, and piped out:
"Oh, please, Mamsie, may she stay?"
"Yes," said Mother Fisher, "she is going to stay, Phronsie."