"Dear—dear!" cried Mrs. Higby, violently caressing Phronsie; "you precious lamb, you, to think I sha'n't hear you pattering around any more, nor asking questions."
"I've made you ever so much trouble, Mrs. Higby," said Phronsie, in a penitent little voice, and enjoying to the fullest extent the petting she was receiving. "And I'm so sorry."
"Trouble!" exploded the farmer's wife, smoothing Phronsie's yellow hair with her large red hands, "the land! it's only a sight of comfort you've been. Why, I've just set by you!"
"I've come in here," said Phronsie, reflectively peering around at the spotless kitchen floor, "with muddy boots on and spoiled it; and I've talked when you wanted to weigh out things, and make cake, and once, don't you remember, Mrs. Higby, I left the pantry door open and the cat got in and ate up part of the custard pudding."
"Bless your heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Higby, with another squeeze, "I've forgot all about it."
"But I haven't," said Phronsie, with a sigh, "and I'm sorry."
"Well, now," said the farmer's wife, "I'll tell you how we will settle that; if you'll come again to the farm, and give my old eyes a sight of you, that'll make it all right."
"You're not old," cried Phronsie, wriggling enough out of Mrs. Higby's arms to look at the round red cheeks and bright eyes. "Oh, Mrs. Higby! and you're just as nice!" With that she clasped her impulsively around the neck. "And Pickering likes you too, Mrs. Higby," continued Phronsie, "he says you're as good as gold."
"You don't say so!" cried Mrs. Farmer Higby, intensely gratified; "well, he's as nice a boy as ever lived, I'm sure, and I'm just as tickled as I can be that that fever was broke up so sudden, for you see, Phronsie, he's got the making of being a right smart man yet."
"Grandpapa is going to have Pickering go home with us," said Phronsie, confidentially, and edging away from the farmer's wife to facilitate conversation. "And he's going to stay at our house with us till he gets nice and strong."