“You better take Grandma a piece of that butter, Polly,” she said; “put it in the blue bowl.”
“Not the butter Mrs. Henderson sent us, Mammy?” said Polly, pausing in getting Phronsie’s clean pink pinafore over her head.
“Yes, and you can toast her some bread,” said Mrs. Pepper. “And, boys, you must hurry. You better start first, and tell Grandma that Polly and Phronsie are coming.”
“Tell Grandma I’m coming,” piped Phronsie, as Polly whirled her around to button up the back of the pinafore.
“Hooray,—come on, Dave!” shouted Joel, banging out of the doorway with little Davie at his heels.
And at last, Polly and Phronsie were on the flat door-stone, ready to start.
“O dear me!” Polly, the little blue bowl in her hand, turned back. “Oh, Mamsie, I’m so sorry!” and she hid her face in Mother Pepper’s neck.
“There,—there, Polly!” Mrs. Pepper patted the brown head with firm fingers, “that’s all been settled now; remember it only wastes time to fret over the past. Hurry along to Grandma; she needs you.”
“I will, Mamsie,” promised Polly, struggling with her tears. “Come, Phronsie.”
But Phronsie had to turn back, too. “Oh, Mamsie,” she begged, just as if she hadn’t said the same thing a dozen times before, “do take care of my poor little woolly boy, ple—ase, Mamsie!”