“I shall let her drink all she wants to,” said old Mrs. Beebe, nodding furiously over Phronsie’s yellow head to the old gentleman, who put up a protesting hand. “There, honey-bird, so you should have some more. It won’t hurt her a mite,” she finished to her husband. And then away she went to see about getting dinner ready and to set out the table with the three extra little plates.
“Now, Phronsie,” said old Mr. Beebe, when the doughnut was all eaten, “I’m a-goin’ to show you some o’ my shoes I have for little folks, an’ where I keep ’em.”
“I wore my new shoes,” said Phronsie, sticking out both feet to regard them affectionately.
“So you did, to be sure,” exclaimed old Mr. Beebe, in a tone of great surprise, not having been able to see much else beside Phronsie’s face since she had perched on his knees.
“And I must wipe them off,” said Phronsie, regarding with great disfavor the dust from her long walk that had clung to them, and trying to slip down from his knee.
“No, no—you set still,” said old Mr. Beebe. “I’ll clean ’em, child.” With that he whipped out his big bandanna and softly patted and rubbed the little shoes quite bright again. “There—they’re as good as new. How nice you keep ’em, child!”
“They’re shut up in Mamsie’s drawer,” said Phronsie, following his every movement with great satisfaction. “And I wrap ’em up, dear Mr. Beebe, every day.”
“So you do,” laughed the old man. “Well, that’s a good child.”
“And I love my new shoes—I do, dear Mr. Beebe.” Phronsie put both arms around the black silk stock encircling his fat neck, and whispered in his ear.
“Do you so?” whispered back old Mr. Beebe.