“Oh, yes, you do.” Polly by this time had her in the bedroom. “Misery me, Phronsie, Mamsie wouldn’t ever want you to go to ride with your hair looking so. Why, it’s just like a cat’s nest,” making the old brush fly busily over Phronsie’s yellow hair.
“Will there be a cat’s nest here in this very room?” asked Phronsie, peering out from the soft wisps falling over her face with wide eyes of astonishment.
“Yes,” said Polly, in such a twitter over the promised ride she didn’t think what she was saying. “Do stand still, or I never’ll get through.”
“Oh, Polly,” Phronsie slipped from under the old brush, and pushed back the hair from her face, “then there’ll be a little kitty!” And she clasped her fat little hands ecstatically.
“Whatever in the world!” exclaimed Polly, the old hair-brush sticking up straight in the air, “do you mean, Phronsie?”
“I’m going to have a little kitty,” sang Phronsie, dancing away by the side of the old four-post bedstead. “Polly said so;—a little kitty!”
“Phronsie,” cried Polly, rushing after her, but Phronsie slipped off, her yellow hair streaming, and danced into the corner, “Polly said so;—a little kitty!”
“Now, Phronsie,” and Polly had her fast by the side of the big bureau, “you must just come out here;” and getting hold of her pink pinafore, Phronsie was soon in the middle of the bedroom. “Oh, make it a white one, do, Polly,” she begged, dreadfully excited.
“What do you mean?” cried Polly, in a great state of bewilderment.
“I want a white one,” said Phronsie, but her lip drooped, and she looked ready to cry, for Polly’s face certainly didn’t look encouraging.