“Do stop,” begged Davie, with one ear on the door. And “Oh, Joel, how can you say such perfectly dreadful words!” cried Polly, from the corner where she was trying to fix up Mamsie’s work-basket that had been upset.
“There is some one coming,” declared Davie, a little pink spot coming on his cheek; “there surely is, Polly,” and he stood quite still to listen.
“Oh, no,” said Polly, with a little laugh, “it can’t be, because we don’t ever have calls, you know.” She dropped a spool with a long white thread dangling from her fingers, down in her lap, and the laugh broke off suddenly. “I wish we could ever have calls; wouldn’t it be perfectly elegant if we only could,” she said wistfully.
“Oh, Polly, don’t look so,” implored little Davie, rushing over to her, while Joel hammered in another nail with a great bang. “Hoh! we do, too,” he cried; “Mr. Beebe comes and Mrs. Beebe. I like her best ’cause she brings doughnuts.”
“Oh, Joey, for shame,” cried Polly, “to think only of what she brings us to eat!”
“They’re good,” said Joel, smacking his lips, and laying down the hammer to think the better over the delights of good Mrs. Beebe’s visits.
“I like Mr. Beebe,” said David, turning off from Polly to announce it.
“So do I,” said Joel, sitting back on his heels, and flourishing his hammer; “he brings candy sticks.”
“He brings candy sticks,” hummed Phronsie, shaking off the little snips and shavings of wood from her gown and getting up from the floor where she had been crouching by Joel’s side, she ran over to Polly who had now picked up the spools of thread remorsefully, and was hurrying away at fixing up the work-basket. “Oh, Polly, I want some pink candy sticks, I do.”
“There, now, Joel, you see,” said Polly, reprovingly. “No, no, Phronsie, we can’t have any to-day, Pet.”