"Well, I'm dreadful glad of that," declared Mrs. Higby heartily, "for that a'nt of his—well, there, Phronsie, she ain't to my taste; she is such a making sort of woman—she comes in here and she wants to make me do this, and do that, till I'm most out of my wits, and I'd like to take my broom and say 'scat' as I do to the cat," and a black frown settled on Mrs. Higby's pleasant face.
Phronsie began to look quite grave. "She loves Pickering," she said thoughtfully, "and when he was so bad she cried almost all the time, Mrs. Higby."
"Oh! she loves him well enough," answered Mrs. Higby, "but she fusses over him so, and wants her way all the same. It would be good if she thought somebody else knew something once in a while," and she began to splash in the dish-pan vigorously to make up for lost time, quickly heaping up a pile of dishes to drain on the little old tray.
"Let me wipe them, do, Mrs. Higby," begged Phronsie eagerly, and without waiting for the permission she felt quite sure of, Phronsie picked up the long brown towel and set to work.
Upstairs Jasper and his father were going over again all the incidents of Mr. King's and Polly's trip, that the old gentleman was willing to communicate, and Jasper, despite his eagerness to know all the whys and wherefores, held himself in check as well as he could, scarcely realizing that he was really to go back to Mr. Marlowe's.
And Polly and Mrs. Cabot were busily packing, with the aid of a farmer's daughter who lived near, while Polly, who dearly loved to do it all herself, was forced to stand by and direct matters; and old Mr. Loughead divided his time between stalking out to the piazza where Pickering was slowly pacing back and forth in his "constitutional," to insist that he shouldn't "walks his legs off," and calling Polly from her work, "just to help me a bit, my dear"—when he got into a tight place over the packing that he insisted should be done by none but his own two hands.
And the whole farmhouse was soon thrown into such a bustle and ferment, that any one looking in would have known without the telling, that "Mr. King's family are going home." And after a day or so of all this, Farmer Higby carried a wagon-load of trunks down to the little station, and his wife drove the carryall, in the back of which Pickering was carefully tucked with Mrs. Cabot, who insisted on being beside him, and old Mr. Loughead in front—the others of the party merrily following in a large old vehicle of no particular pattern whatever—and before anybody could hardly realize it, the train came rushing in, and there were hurried good-bys, and hand-shakes, and they were off—Phronsie crying as she held to her, "I wish you were going too, I do, dear Mrs. Higby." And the farmer and his wife were left on the platform, staring after them with sorry eyes.
"Well, now, Phronsie," said Mr. King, as they quieted down, and Phronsie turned back after the last look at the little station, "I think it is time to answer your question, so as to let you go home without anything on your mind."
"About Charlotte, you mean, Grandpapa?" whispered Phronsie softly, with wide eyes, and glancing back to see that no one else heard.
"To be sure—about Charlotte," said the old gentleman. "Well, I've concluded you ought to have your way, and make Charlotte a gift of some money, if you want to."