“Maybe,” said Mrs. Pepper, then she laughed too, a sound that made Polly happier yet. “I think the kettle has boiled, Polly.”
“I believe it has,” laughed Polly, skipping back to the old stove.
And then when Grandma had had her tea and eaten the toast that Polly had made to go with it, and Polly had washed and wiped the dishes, Phronsie on the other side of Grandma’s big bed turned over and put out her hand. “I’m so hungry, Polly,” she said.
“Oh, Pet, are you awake?” Polly ran around the old bed and covered her face with kisses; “and you’re all well, aren’t you, Pet?”
“No,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head as well as she could for Polly hugging her, “but I’m very hungry, Polly. I am truly.”
“Well, and you shall have something,” declared Polly, flying off into the kitchen to tell Mrs. Pepper all about it.
So Mamsie dropped her sewing and went in to look at Phronsie to see how she really was. And everything had to be told to Grandma, who by this time was in a bad fright lest Phronsie were worse. And then Grandma said Phronsie must have toast, too, and so Polly ran out to make that. And presently Phronsie was sitting up, propped against a pillow close to Grandma’s, and eating with great satisfaction all around a crispy, crinkly slice of toast that Polly brought to the side of the bed with a great flourish on a piece of paper, pretending it was a napkin.
And then Polly curled up at the foot of the bed and laughed, and told Phronsie a merry little story about Parson Henderson’s chickens that Phronsie always considered part of the eating process. And Grandma “ohed” and “ahed” through it all, although she hadn’t heard a word, and everything was getting on as fine as could be, and Mrs. Pepper out in the kitchen gave a sigh of relief as her needle flew faster than ever. “It surely hasn’t hurt Phronsie to bring her over, and Grandma needed us after that chill;” for Polly had run back through the lane after an early visit to the cottage, saying that “Grandma is awfully cold, and she can’t get warm, and she’s all huddled up over the stove.” And Mrs. Pepper had bundled up Phronsie in an old quilt and carried her over, telling Polly to bring the coat she was trying to finish and the work-basket. And then Ben and Joel and Davie had all hurried off to work together, for the two little boys were to help Ben at Deacon Blodgett’s on this morning.
“It’s so funny to lock the door,” said Polly to herself, as she swung the old key on her finger and skipped down the lane. “O dear me, wouldn’t it be nice to ever go off into the woods and pick flowers, and run—O dear me—and stay as long as I wanted to—just think—oh!” But here she was at Grandma Bascom’s, and ever so much work to be done.
“I’d stop for them boys to-morrow, I declare I would,” said Mr. Tisbett to himself, rattling off on the way to collect his customers, “ef I warn’t engaged to bring up them folks from the city to the Potter farm. That’s jest it—this busy season—it beats all to know when I can git another chance so good as this was to-day, and no one to take this ere seat with me.” He slapped his knees with his horny hand in his vexation, and set about his day’s work in no very pleasant frame of mind.