“Whew!” whistled Ben, as he stood still. “What’s been happening? What is it, Polly?”
“Oh, Ben, such a fall!” answered Polly, kissing Phronsie tenderly; and she then gave him the whole account, interspersed with Phronsie’s corrections, when she considered anything left out.
Ben petted Phronsie to her heart’s content, patted the poor little hand sympathetically, and tried to think of something he could give her to show his sorrow. But he could think of nothing, till Polly leaned over and whispered something in his ear.
“The very thing!” he shouted.
“Sh! sh! but isn’t it?” said Polly, skipping, “if Mammy’ll only say yes!”
“What is it, Ben?” said Phronsie. “I’m big enough now to know secrets, and besides, I’ve cut my thumb.”
“I know, Pet, and you wait a little,” said Ben, “and you’ll know. Halloa, what’s the matter with your stove, Polly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Polly, despairingly. “It won’t burn! the putty fell out, Ben, and I’ve put in wood, but it won’t do anything; and there’s my bread, see! it’ll be spoilt, and what’ll we do, then, I wonder!”
“Shan’t we have anything to eat then, Polly?” said little Phronsie, with big eyes.
“Yes,” said Ben, quickly, “I’ll go out and bring home lots of chipmunks, Phronsie, a hundred, say, and we’ll hang ’em up all round the kitchen, and they’ll last us a year.”