“Tell stories, do, Polly,” begged Van.
“Yes, do, Polly,” said little Dick, who had spent most of the day in trying to get near to Phronsie, keeping other people very much occupied in driving him off, as she had to be very quiet. “Do, Polly,” he begged.
“Oh, Polly's tired,” said Jasper, knowing that she had been with Phronsie all her spare time, and looking at the brown eyes which were drooping a bit in the firelight.
“Oh, no, I will,” said Polly, rousing herself, and feeling that she ought not to be tired, when Phronsie was getting well so fast, and everything was so beautiful. “I'll tell you one. Let me see, what shall it be about?” and she leant her head in her hands to think a bit.
“Let her off,” said Jasper; “do, boys. I'll tell you one instead,” he said.
“No, we don't want yours,” said Van, not very politely. “We want Polly's.”
“For shame, Van!” said Percy, who dearly loved to reprove his brother, and never allowed the occasion to slip when he could do so.
“For shame yourself!” retorted Van, flinging himself down on the rug. “You're everlastingly teasing Polly to do things when she's tired to death. So there, Percy Whitney.”
“Oh, I'll tell the story,” Polly said, hastily bringing her brown head up, while Phronsie began to look troubled.
“I'd like to tell a story,” said Tom Beresford slowly, where he sat just back of the big rug.