“I was going to say I’d take Polly, too, and she hasn’t been to ride since her eyes got well,” he said artfully, “but I can’t, unless you stop crying and let me button up your shoes.”
“Can’t Polly go?” said Phronsie, struggling very hard to crowd the tears back, and wiping her cheeks with her fat little hands.
“No, not unless you stop crying and let me button up your shoes,” declared Doctor Fisher, firmly. “She’ll have to stay at home, and, just think, she hasn’t had a ride since her eyes got well,” he repeated, quite delighted at his success so far.
“Then you may button up my new shoes,” said Phronsie, smothering her sobs, and she stuck out her foot, and the little doctor speedily had all the buttons in the right holes. “Now, then, the other one.” And then those buttons all flew into their places, and quicker than it takes to tell it, the little “red-topped” shoes were both fastened up, and Doctor Fisher was saying, “Now run and call Polly, child,” which really wasn’t necessary, for Phronsie was already on the way.
And then out flew Polly from the bedroom, her cheeks as red as two roses, and she raced up to Doctor Fisher. “Oh, I’m so glad—I’m going to ride! I am—I am!” just as if telling him a piece of news.
“Well, hurry up then,” said the little doctor, bursting into a merry laugh, and quite as excited. So Polly flew off to get Phronsie’s pink sunbonnet and her own, but presently back she came without them.
“Oh, I forgot we can’t go without asking Mamsie,” she said, and all the color flew out of her face, “and she’s down to Mrs. Henderson’s.” And she clasped her hands in distress.
“You go right along,” commanded the little doctor, peremptorily. “I asked your mother on the way down here. I had to stop at the parsonage, and she said, ‘Yes.’”
“Mamsie said ‘Yes,’” shouted Polly, her brown eyes widening in delight, and seizing Phronsie, who had followed her closely, clamoring for her sunbonnet. “She did, Phronsie, she truly did. There, come, Pet, and let me brush your hair.” And she began to dance over to the bedroom, hurrying Phronsie along.
“I don’t want my hair brushed, Polly,” said Phronsie, in a grieved tone, and stumbling along, Polly holding her hand closely.