"Sit up like a lady," she commanded.
"Oh, don't!" cried Phronsie, quite horror-stricken, and running over on distressed feet. "She's my child," she gasped.
"No, she's mine, an' I'm teachin' her manners. I ain't through pretendin' yet," said the girl. She put out a long arm and held Phronsie back.
"But you struck her." Phronsie lifted a pale face, and her blue eyes flashed very much as Polly's brown ones did on occasion.
The new mother whirled around and stared at her.
"Why, I had to, just the same as you're licked when you're bad," she said, in astonishment.
"What's 'licked'?" asked Phronsie, overcome with curiosity, yet keeping her eyes on her child, bolt upright against the tree.
"Why, whipped," said the girl, "just the same as you are when you're bad."
Phronsie drew a long breath.
"I've never been whipped," she said slowly.