When Phronsie saw him, she started for Mamsie, too, and precipitated herself in Mother Pepper’s lap, the two children making a dreadful mix-up of the work. “Take me, Mamsie, too,” she begged.
“So Mother will,” declared Mrs. Pepper, casting aside the sewing as well as she could and bundling the two children into her lap; “there, now, here you both are,”—little Davie constantly saying, “I am so glad, Mamsie.”
“I am so glad,” murmured Phronsie, though she didn’t know in the least what it was all about, and swinging her feet contentedly.
“And now, Polly,” Ben was saying over in their corner, Joel hanging on each word, “we must begin to get things ready if we’re going to have all that company to-morrow.”
“So we must,” cried Polly, with an important air, “because you see we never know how many are coming.”
“That’s so,” assented Ben.
The Pepper children had long ago decided, on talking over this company afternoon, that whenever they could hold it, four of them should sit in state and receive, while one should knock at the door, and be ushered in as caller, with great ceremony. And after this call was ended, the one who had made it should slip into the seat of another, who should go out and be caller. And so turn about and turn about, till every one had made a call, and again on a second round of visits if they wished. “For we can play it as long as we want to,” Polly had said, smoothing down her calico apron in great delight.
“I guess you’ll be glad to stop,” said Ben, grimly.
“Oh, Ben Pepper!” Polly exclaimed, “indeed, we shan’t. Well, now for the first thing—we must dress up.” She wrinkled up her forehead at that, and the delight dropped out of her face. “O dear, what shall we do for clothes?”
“There’s the feathers, you know,” said Ben, reassuringly.