“Oh Alexia, you never could be good like Polly,” said Phronsie, standing quite still in astonishment.
“Of course not,” said Alexia with a little laugh, “but I mean—oh, you know what I mean, Phronsie. I want to be good so that Polly will say she likes it. Well, come on now, get your horrible old—I mean, your dolls, and—”
“I wish very much you wouldn't call them dolls, Alexia,” said Phronsie, not offering to sit down; “they are my children, and I don't think they like to be called anything else.”
“Well, they sha'n't hear it, then,” declared Alexia decidedly, “so get some of them, and brush their hair, just as you were doing when I came in, and I'm going to read aloud to you out of one of your books, Phronsie.”
“Oh—oh!” Phronsie clapped her hands in glee. Next to Polly's stories, which of course she couldn't have now as Polly was at school, Phronsie dearly loved to be read to. But she suddenly grew very sober again.
“Are you sure you will like it, Alexia?” she asked, coming up to peer into Alexia's face.
“Yes, yes, Pet, to be sure I will,” cried Alexia, seizing her to half smother her with kisses. “Why, Phronsie, it will make me very happy indeed.”
“Well, if it will really make you happy, Alexia,” said Phronsie, smoothing down her pinafore in great satisfaction, “I will get my children.” And she ran over to the sofa, and came back with an armful.
“Now what book?” asked Alexia, forgetting whether her arm ached or not, and flying to her feet. “I'm going down to your bookshelf to get it.”
“Oh Alexia,” cried Phronsie in great excitement, “will you—could you get 'The Little Yellow Duck'?”