Phronsie dropped the little button-hook, with a handle that looked exactly like silver, that old Mr. Beebe had given her when her new shoes were bought.
“Oh, I do—it’s me—please take me!” She hopped to her feet. Ever so many of the buttons were in the wrong holes of one little shoe, while the other lay on the floor, the little button-hook flying off to have a good time by itself.
“Oh, take me!” she begged, very much excited, and standing on tiptoe.
“So I shall,” cried the little doctor, beaming on her. “O dear me, you’ll have to get that other shoe on,” with a glance of dismay. “Well, now I must button it up for you.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Phronsie, shaking her yellow head. “I must do it all alone by myself—I truly must.” So she sat down on the floor and gravely set to work again, but the last little buttons positively refused to go in any holes at all.
“Now, see here, Phronsie,” said Doctor Fisher, at last, “you must let me help you, or you can’t go. Don’t you hear Dobbin telling us to hurry up? There, you put your foot right here, and I’ll have those buttons where they belong in no time.”
“Is Dobbin calling us?” asked Phronsie, the little hook pausing over a refractory button, to listen.
“Yes, indeed,” little Doctor Fisher nodded vehemently. Just then the old horse waiting out by the gate gave a loud neigh. “Don’t you hear him? There, now, says I.” And he slipped the little buttons out of the wrong holes to begin afresh.
“Oh, no—no,” protested Phronsie, in alarm, pulling away her little fat foot; “those are my very own buttons all done.” And two tears ran down her round cheeks.
The little doctor viewed her with dismay, and pulled out his big bandanna to wipe away the tears that were now coming so fast. He was at his wits’ end to know what to do next.