“But I want some, Polly, I do—very much indeed,” said Phronsie, gravely, and her little lips fell.
Polly threw down the coat and was just gathering her up in her lap, when she stopped suddenly. “There is somebody at the door. Oh, perhaps it is a call after all, children,” and she drew herself up and felt elegant at once.
“I’ll go,” cried Joel, hopping to his feet.
“No, you mustn’t, Joe,” said Polly, decidedly; “Davie heard it first—you must let him.”
“Well, you said it wasn’t any one,” grumbled Joel, but he stood still in his tracks.
“Well, and I didn’t think it was,” said Polly, pricking up her ears. “Yes, there it is—sure enough,” as a soft, deliberate rap sounded on the old door. “Now, Davie, you open the door nicely and say Mamsie isn’t home, but would they please to walk in.” She patted his hair softly. “I’m so glad I put on Phronsie’s clean pink apron,” she said in great satisfaction.
Little David went softly across the kitchen floor, wishing Polly had let Joel go since he wanted to so very badly, and with fingers trembling from his great responsibility, he lifted the latch and pulled the old door open.
There stood Peletiah, the minister’s son. Joel, crowding up behind Davie, took one look,—“Hoh, ’tisn’t any one,” he cried, terribly disappointed.
“Oh, Joel,” exclaimed Polly, springing to the door, very much ashamed at such a reception to the minister’s boy, and “Oh, Peletiah, do come in,” she cried heartily.
“Yes, I’m coming in,” said Peletiah, not a bit disturbed at Joel’s words, “because my mother told me to.” And he stepped slowly into the middle of the old kitchen floor, where he stood and regarded them all steadily.