“Let me,” begged Phronsie, standing on tiptoe, and putting up both hands. “I want to, dear Mrs. Beebe, I do.”
“So you shall,” said old Mrs. Beebe, smiling at her.
“Oh, Phronsie, you can’t do it,” said Polly in dismay.
“Oh, yes, I can,” declared Phronsie; “I want to, I do.”
“And so you shall, honey-bird,” declared Mrs. Beebe. So Phronsie was lifted up to the old lady’s lap, where she was kept from slipping off by Polly holding on to her, while she fumbled among the black ribbon strings, every minute getting them more mixed than ever; Mrs. Beebe smiling above them, and protesting she wouldn’t have any one but Phronsie Pepper untie them for the world.
“O dear me!” said Polly, the color rushing all over her round cheek. “Do let me help you, Phronsie. Joel, you come and hold Phronsie on to Mrs. Beebe’s lap. Now, Pet, I’ll show you how.”
“No, no,” protested Phronsie, shaking her yellow head, “my dear sweet Mrs. Beebe wants me to untie it, and I must do it all by myself.”
“She’s mussing them dreadfully,” Polly felt obliged to whisper over Phronsie’s head into Mrs. Beebe’s ear, but the old lady only smiled and said, “Never mind, I’ll run a hot flat-iron over ’em when I get home.”
All this time Mr. Beebe had found a chair for himself, and sat down, blowing his nose on his big bandanna, and alternately entertained by little David and Joel, who ran back and forth from him to Mrs. Beebe, as the untying of the bonnet was in progress.
“She never’ll get it done,” grumbled Joel, unable to keep his eyes from the big black bag that still dangled from Mrs. Beebe’s arm. It bulged generously, and the smell of its contents was getting into the very corners of the old kitchen. At last the bonnet was lifted from the old lady’s head, and Polly bore it carefully off to lay on the big four-poster in Mamsie’s bedroom.