When she heard the story, interspersed with Phronsie’s pleadings to keep the baby, Mrs. Pepper looked at Polly.
“It must be as you say, Polly,” she said, “for the extra work will come on you, and you don’t get any time now to play.”
“Oh, I wish you’d keep the baby,” said Polly; “it’ll be play to take care of her. Do, Mamsie,” she begged, with sparkling eyes.
“I’m going to wash her,” said Phronsie, leaning out of the old gig with flushed face, “and put her to bed, and comb her hair, I am, Mamsie.”
“I will keep her,” said Mrs. Pepper, with a smile for Phronsie, but her glance rested on Polly’s face.
“Then I shall drive you home,” said little Doctor Fisher; “get right in, Mrs. Pepper.”
“Oh, no,” she said, laughing, “the gig won’t hold us all.”
“I’ll sit on the floor, Mamsie,” said Polly, slipping to the floor of the gig, baby and all.
“Very well, then, I will hold the baby.” So in got Mrs. Pepper, first handing in her bundle of coats next to Polly on the floor, then Polly handed up the baby, Phronsie crowding up closer than ever. Then in got the little doctor and away they all went, a gigful, with Mrs. Granniss’s baby to keep for two whole days.
“It does seem so good, Mamsie,” cried Polly, hurrying up the path to the Little Brown House with the baby, Phronsie running along by her side, protesting at every step that she ought to carry it as it was her baby, and Mrs. Pepper behind with the bundle of coats, “that we have a baby of our very own!”