Phronsie hurried to him, a gathering fear at her heart, and getting into his lap, laid her cheek against his.
"Oh! my dear, you oughtn't to be here—you are too young," said Mr. King brokenly, yet holding her close.
"I am not afraid, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, her mouth to his ear, "and I think Pickering would like me to be here. I brought him some flowers." She moved the hand holding the bunch, so that the old gentleman could see it. "He likes wild flowers, and I promised to get the first ones I could."
"O, dear!" groaned old Mr. King, not trusting himself to look.
"May I lay them down by him?" whispered Phronsie.
"Yes, yes, child," said the old gentleman, allowing her to slip to the floor. The group around the bedside parted to let her pass, and then Phronsie saw Polly. Mrs. Cabot was holding Polly's well hand, while her head was on Polly's shoulder.
"Grandpapa said I might," said Phronsie softly to the two, and pointing to her flowers.
"Yes, dear."
It was Polly who answered; Mrs. Cabot was crying so hard she could not speak a word.
Phronsie's little heart seemed to stop beating as she reached the bedside. She had not thought that she would be afraid, but it was so different to be standing there looking down upon the pillow where Pickering lay so still and white, and with closed eyes, looking as if he had already gone away from them. She glanced up in a startled way and saw Dr. Fisher at the head of the bed; he was holding Pickering's wrist. "Yes," he motioned, "put them down."