"My scissors?" repeated Mother Fisher. "Why, Phronsie, child, what are you going to do with them?"
"We're going to cut letters," said Phronsie, with an important air, her fingers already in the basket, which, standing on tiptoe, she had pulled quickly over toward her in her eagerness. "And may we have your scissors, Mamsie?"
"Take care," warned Mother Fisher, but too late. Over went the big basket, and away rattled all the things, having a perfectly beautiful time by themselves over the library floor.
"Bless me!" ejaculated old Mr. King, while little Dick laughed right out.
Phronsie stood quite still, the color all out of her round cheeks. Then her bosom heaved, and she darted over to lay her head in Mother Fisher's lap.
"Oh, I didn't mean to, Mamsie," she wailed.
"Oh, deary me! bless me!" exclaimed Grandpapa, in the greatest consternation, and leaning over the two.
"There, there, don't mind it, deary." Mother Fisher was smoothing the yellow hair.
"Take me, Mamsie," begged Phronsie, holding up both hands, and she burrowed her face deeper yet in Mrs. Fisher's lap.
"Oh, dear me!" old Mr. King kept exclaiming. Then he pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face violently. This not making him feel any better, he kept exclaiming, "Oh, dear me!" at intervals.