Then she broke short off, and ran back into Mamsie's room, and flung herself down by the bed, just as she used to do by the four-poster in the bedroom of the little brown house.
“Why, Polly, child!” Mother Fisher's voice was very cheery as she came in, Phronsie hurrying after.
“I don't see her,” began Phronsie in a puzzled way, and peering on all sides. “Where is she, Mamsie?”
Mrs. Fisher went over and laid her hand on Polly's brown head. “Now, Phronsie, you may run out, that is a good girl.” She leaned over, and set a kiss on Phronsie's red lips.
“Is Polly sick?” asked Phronsie, going off to the door obediently, but looking back with wondering eyes.
“No, dear, I think not,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Run along, dear.”
“I am so glad she isn't sick,” said Phronsie, as she went slowly off. Yet she carried a troubled face.
“I ought to go and see how Sinbad is,” she decided, as she went downstairs. This visit was an everyday performance, to be carefully gone through with. So she passed out of the big side doorway, to the veranda.
“There is Michael now,” she cried joyfully, espying that individual raking up the west lawn. So skipping off, she flew over to him. This caught the attention of little Dick from the nursery window.
“Hurry up there!” he cried crossly to Battles, who was having a hard time anyway getting him into a fresh sailor suit.