“Can’t is a very poor word to use, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, dryly, “when folks know what ought to be done.”
“But, Mamsie,” cried Polly, deserting the ring of children sitting on the floor, to rush tumultuously over to the sewing corner. Phronsie immediately got up and pattered after her, Joel following after, little David sitting quite still, and sobbing softly into his sleeve, “don’t you see, oh, don’t you see, Mamsie, that we’ve never had a chance to go,—to go to Cherryville before, and we’ve wanted to for so long.”
She thrust her face with a little white line around the mouth, up against the buttonhole where Mrs. Pepper was setting fine stitches.
“We’ve wanted to,” cooed Phronsie, who didn’t yet half know what it was all about, only that Polly wanted something dreadfully, and she patted her mother’s knee to attract attention.
“Take care, Polly,” warned Mrs. Pepper; “you almost stuck that needle into you.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Polly, recklessly, and brushing back her hair from her flushed face. But she dodged the busy needle. “You see, Mamsie.”
“Yes, you see, Mamsie,” shouted Joel.
“I see,” said Mrs. Pepper, gravely. She lifted her face for a minute, and Polly’s heart smote her when she saw how very pale it was; then the stitches were set as quickly as ever.
“And if we’ve got to give it all up—” Polly really couldn’t stop by this time, but the words came rushing out over each other for all the world just like a noisy little brook tumbling over the stones in its way, “All the fun driving in Miss Parrott’s coach, to stay with Grandma Bascom all day,—why, we can’t, Mamsie!” Down went her brown head in Mother Pepper’s lap; and she sobbed as if her heart would break.
“No, we can’t,” cried Joel, in a loud voice. “See Polly cry, Mamsie!” He pointed a surprised and shaking finger at the brown head buried in Mother Pepper’s work. At that, Phronsie gave a sharp little scream. Mrs. Pepper put aside Mr. Atkins’s coat with its last-but-one buttonhole half done.