“I want it,” said Marianna, suddenly, the first word she had spoken, and leaning over her mother’s arm, her mouth watering for the possession of the coveted treasure.
“Stick out your foot then,” said old Mr. Beebe, cheerily. “Now, Phronsie, you sit down on the floor. Then, says I, that shoe’ll fly on. Tee—hee—hee!”
“That child ain’t a-goin’ to try on shoes!” gasped Mrs. Phipps, in amazement. “Why, what are you thinkin’ of, Mr. Beebe?” She hitched her black crocheted bag up farther on her arm, throwing aside her shawl-ends nervously.
“Ef I fit shoes,” observed old Mr. Beebe, “I fit ’em as I please in my shop. As long as they fit, I dunno’s folks can complain.”
But Phronsie took her gaze off from the customer’s face, and got up from the floor where she had obediently seated herself. “The lady doesn’t want me to, dear Mr. Beebe,” she said gravely, and her mouth quivered.
“Oh, yes, she does,” said old Mr. Beebe, confidently, “or else, you see, Phronsie, there ain’t goin’ to be any shoes fitted in this shop.”
“I want them shoes,” screamed Marianna, in a loud cry, and pointing a red little finger at the one now dangling from Mr. Beebe’s hand. It was so piercing, that Joel dropped a green box and sprang across the little shop to see what was the matter. David had long ago laid down his snarl of shoe-strings to give absorbing attention to his neighbors on the settee, and the little wooden chair.
“Stop your noise,” commanded her mother, angrily. “I hain’t any objection to her, I’m sure,” turning to old Mr. Beebe, “so long’s you’re there.”
“There, you see, Phronsie, th’ lady’s willin’,” said the old gentleman.
“Is she, dear Mr. Beebe?” asked Phronsie, clinging to his hand and wishing very much that Mamsie was there.