Sitting on the lowest step with her in her arms, she saw the knife off at some little distance, where it fell on the floor. “Oh, Phronsie, you didn’t take the knife! Oh!” she added faintly, as she saw a stream of blood roll over Phronsie’s pink apron, and great dabs on her face. White as a sheet, Polly never knew how she looked Phronsie over; but she soon saw the trouble came only from her little fat thumb, which, after the first fright, Phronsie protested was the only place that “hurt.”
Strange as it may seem, Phronsie had rolled over and over the steps, with the knife in her hand, and sustained no injury beyond a rather deep cut in her thumb, which, however, bled enough to have caused greater fears. Polly sopped up the tears from the child’s bloody little face, and rolled the poor thumb in her handkerchief. Then she set Phronsie down, pulled out her feet, felt of her joints, and made her get up and walk back and forth. She drew a long breath. “Well,” she said in the greatest relief, “there aren’t any bones broken anyway. Oh, Phronsie, do you feel bad anywhere else?”
“No,” said little Phronsie, “only my thumb.” And she stuck up the little dingy wad, and when she saw it, began to cry again.
“There, there, Polly’s darling! now, let’s see what we can do!” Polly cooed away as she waddled up the steps with Phronsie in her arms.
The first thing that met her view, was the old black stove, now utterly hateful, with the fire all out. “Oh, you old ugly thing!” said she, “think what you’ve done this morning!” And then she set herself to work over Phronsie.
In the first place, she knew she must get some court-plaster, for the cut was bleeding pretty fast. “Now, Phronsie, you sit just as still as everything.” Polly had put her in Mammy’s old rocking-chair. “And, childie, you can have this.” A most magnificent thing it seemed to Phronsie, and it stopped her tears at once, for it was a piece of cake, rather hard to be sure, but still beautiful. Polly had saved it up, since it had been given them, as a treat, and the children were going to have it this very night.
There wasn’t any court-plaster in the house, but she knew old “Grandma Bascom” had some. Her cottage was just down at the end of the lane; so leaving Phronsie munching her cake, she sped over, and rushed in without knocking, for the old lady was deaf, and wouldn’t have heard, anyway. “Oh, if you please, Grandma, Phronsie’s got hurt! May I have some court-plaster?”
“Why, for the land’s sake! your ma’s got hurt, did you say?” said the old lady, stopping her sweeping in the middle of the floor, and leaning on the broom.
“No, marm; Phronsie!” screamed Polly in the old lady’s ear. “Mamsie’s away.”
“She is, though?” said Grandma, kindly; “now that’s too bad; ’n what did you say you want?”