“I don’t think I should like chipmunks, Ben,” said the child, gravely.
“Oh, Ben, do stop laughing,” said Polly, “for it is really dreadful if we can’t eat the bread.”
Ben was already on his knees before the stove. He fussed and worked over it, and had recourse to his putty again, which Polly remarked might stay as long as he was putting it in; and finally the old stove concluded to make the best of it, and try again. So in a short space of time there was a bright, cheerful fire crackling and snapping, the bread was in the oven, and Polly was flying around making up for lost time.
About dinner-time, Joel and David made their appearance, as hungry as two little beavers. Polly’s bread wasn’t done, so they had to content themselves with the old crusts in addition to their hasty-pudding. What a fuss they made over little Phronsie! Everything had to be gone over again for their benefit, the handkerchief to be taken off, and the thumb exhibited, and Joel felt very bad because Polly wouldn’t allow him to pull up the court-plaster to see exactly what kind of a cut it was. “Just one little end, Polly, I should think you might; it’ll stick down again just as easy.” But Polly was firm.
Phronsie was the pet of the household. Anything harming her hurt them all. Into each heart she crept, though in a different way, making a place not filled by any other. She was the baby; and to see Phronsie hurt, almost took away the boys’ appetites, the most touching way in which they could show their grief. After dinner, Joel rehearsed Phronsie’s adventure, trying to roll down the old steps, just as she said she did. “Phoh! it don’t hurt any,” he said.
“Well, but take the knife, Joe,” said Davie, “take the knife; that’ll hurt, I guess.”
“No,” said Ben, “we’ve had enough cuts to-day; don’t let’s make any more trouble for Mamsie. What’ll she say now, I wonder?”
Nightfall brought Mrs. Pepper, tired with her toil; but oh! so thankful, while she held her baby in her lap, that the kind Father in Heaven had watched over the Little Brown House in her absence.
There was nobody to little Phronsie’s mind like her mother. Cuddled up there to her warm breast, while Polly got the cup of tea that had been kept warm for Mamsie by the stove, she told over in childish way the story that Polly had already rehearsed so fully to the mother’s anxious ears, not forgetting—and here the child hung her head—the recital of taking the bread-knife and the sad consequences ensuing. And then it all came out—Polly’s and Ben’s secret—and after its disclosure Phronsie was decidedly glad that she had been hurt.
For some time, ever since Phronsie could remember, she had been promised a pair of new shoes, very new, for her own; just as soon as the mother could get together money that could be spared for their purchase. She had never had a pair really bought for her. Joel’s and David’s were generally so worn and holey, long before there was a chance of their outgrowing them, that there was no hope from that quarter.