And then Polly told her where they had gone, and Mrs. Pepper sat down to the work so sadly interrupted when the plans to go to the circus were screamed out, and took up her needle to send it flying back and forth faster than ever on one of Mr. Atkins’s coats. And Polly drew up the little stool at her feet and began to pick, with quick remorseful fingers, the basting-threads out of another coat that was finished.
It wasn’t till then that Phronsie deserted her place. “Oh, Polly,” and she drew a long breath, as she came up to the side of the little stool, “what is it?” and she put her face in between the busy fingers and the basting-threads.
“Take care,” said Polly, “you almost made me break that, Pet. What do you mean, Phronsie?”
“What is it?” still demanded Phronsie, in a puzzled way.
“Whatever does she mean, Mamsie?” cried Polly, wrinkling up her forehead and dropping the coat in her lap, so that the long white basting-thread trailed off to the floor.
“Why, I suppose she’s thinking of all you children, how badly you felt because you couldn’t go to the circus, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a keen glance from her black eyes on Phronsie’s troubled face; “but never mind that now,” she added quickly, seeing Polly’s own. “Come here, Phronsie,” she cleared her sewing out of her lap, and held out her arms.
Phronsie ran into them like a frightened rabbit. “What is it, Mamsie?” she cried, lifting her face.
“See here, Phronsie,” said Mrs. Pepper, holding her very close; “look up at Mother,” which really wasn’t very necessary to say, as Phronsie hadn’t taken her blue eyes from Mamsie’s face. “Everything is all right; I want you to understand that, child. Mother says it’s all right now.”
“Is Polly right?” asked Phronsie, looking off at Polly’s brown head, which was drooping just then.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Pepper, in such a hearty tone that Polly raised her head a little, “Polly is all right, Phronsie.”