“But I didn’t mean in that way, Joel,” said Polly. “O dear me!”
“Well, how will I have to work, then?” demanded Joel, getting up to his feet and regarding her with disfavor.
“Well, you know you ought not to have eaten up that cake,” said Polly, emphatically; “so, of course, you must work to pay it back. So you will have to pick berries, because there isn’t anything to make a pie of but berries. And you must pick them.”
“O dear me, I don’t want to,” grumbled Joel, who had his own ideas of what he intended to do the rest of that day. And no berries could be found nearer than a mile-and-a-half hot walk.
“For shame, Joe,” cried Polly, hotly, “you’ve eaten up Phronsie’s cake, and the only thing in this world I can think of to pay her back is to make her a pie on her own little new tin plate, and she can’t have it if you don’t go after the berries.”
“I’ll go,—I’ll go,” promised Joel, in alarm, his only fear now being that something would happen to prevent Phronsie from being paid back for her lost piece of cake, “but Dave’s got to go with me to pick the berries.”
“No, he hasn’t, Joel,” said Polly, firmly; “not unless he really wants to. And you must pick all the berries for Phronsie’s pie, anyway, and what Davie picks, if he really wants to go, must be brought home to Mamsie.”
So Joel, quite relieved that Phronsie was really to have her pie, if Mamsie would let them have the flour, and quite as sure that Davie would go to pick berries if invited, pranced off at Polly’s heels out of the “Provision Room.”
But the story was not told to Phronsie that day, for just as Polly ran over the rickety little steps into the old kitchen, a rap on the green door was heard. “There’s our Mr. Beebe,” screamed David, craning his neck to look out of the window. And Phronsie clapped her hands, and then they all rushed to the door. And there on the big flat stone was good Mrs. Beebe, and coming slowly up the path was Mr. Beebe, and there was the big black cloth bag hanging on Mrs. Beebe’s arm, and Joel smelt doughnuts before she ever got into the kitchen.
“You dear, precious, little creeters, you!” exclaimed old Mrs. Beebe, as they all surrounded her. “Get her Mamsie’s chair, Joel, do,” said Polly, “and I’ll untie your bonnet.”