“If you’ll tell me what you’re talking about, child,” said Polly, almost in despair, still holding the old hair-brush, “I’ll—”
“You said there would be one,” said Phronsie, in an injured tone, and her blue eyes fastened on Polly with disapproval.
“Said there would be what?” gasped Polly.
“A cat’s nest in this very room,” said Phronsie, struggling with her tears, “and I want—a little white kitty, I do, Polly!” Then she burst into a loud sob and flung herself into Polly’s arms.
“O dear me! Oh—oh!” cried Polly, gustily, gathering her up, the old hair-brush flying off by itself. “Phronsie—O dear me!”
“You said so, Polly.” Phronsie, held tightly in Polly’s arms, kept saying this over and over reproachfully.
“Oh, I know it,” cried Polly. “O dear me, I didn’t mean there would really and truly be a cat’s nest in this room, Phronsie.”
“You said so,” repeated Phronsie, and this time she wriggled around to look up into Polly’s face with indignation.
“Well,—O dear me! I said your hair looked like one, Phronsie.” Then Polly burst into such a merry peal of laughter that neither of them heard little Doctor Fisher come in from the kitchen.
“Well, I never!” he cried, setting his big spectacles straight to stare at them in amazement. Phronsie was, by this time, crying so that she didn’t see him, but Polly did, and she sprang to her feet, upsetting Phronsie, the color rushing up to her brown hair. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she cried.