“You better believe so,” nodded Ben, hugely delighted to see Joe's good spirits, when the door opened, and in popped Phronsie's yellow head.
She ran up to Joel. “Oh Joey!” she hummed delightedly, “I've found you,” and threw herself into his arms.
Joel turned sharply, knife in hand. It was all done in an instant. Phronsie exclaimed, “Oh!” in such a tone that Ben, off in the corner of the room, whirled around, to see Joel, white as a sheet, holding Phronsie. “I've killed her,” he screamed.
Ben sprang to them. The knife lay on the table, where Joel had thrown it, a little red tinge along the tip. Ben couldn't help seeing it as he dashed by, with a groan.
“Give her to me,” he commanded hoarsely.
“No, no—I'll hold her,” persisted Joel, through white lips, and hanging to Phronsie.
“Give her to me, and run down for Father Fisher.”
“It doesn't hurt much, Joey,” said Phronsie, holding up her little arm. A small stream of blood was flowing down, and she turned away her head.
Joel took one look, and fled with wild eyes. “I don't believe it's very bad,” Ben made himself call after him hoarsely. “Now, Phronsie, you'll sit in my lap—there; and I'll keep this old cut together as well as I can. We must hold your arm up, so, child.” Ben made himself talk as fast as he could to keep Phronsie's eyes on him.
“I got cut in the little brown house once, didn't I, Bensie?” said Phronsie, and trying to creep up further into Ben's lap.