“I didn’t drive all the way,” said little Davie, rubbing his hands together and trying not to think that they smarted.
“Well, you drove some,” said Polly, happily; “just think of that, Davie.”
And just then, whether it was that the old horse felt the excitement of the morning too much for his nerves, no one knew, but he started suddenly, and before Mr. Beggs could even shout out “whoa!” or clutch the leather reins dangling over the harness, away he went with a few clumsy jerks, and off flew Em’line’s bag of rags, the strings untying and a good part of the ravellings and snippings of her wedding clothes scattered in the dusty road.
And away clattered Mr. Beggs after his horse, Joel whooping and hallooing at his heels, and little Davie following as fast as he could.
“O dear me!” exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands. She longed to run, too, and help to catch good Mr. Beggs’s horse, but there was Phronsie—no, she must stay and take care of her.
“Won’t he ever come back?” asked Phronsie, and the tears began to come.
“Oh, yes, Pet,” said Polly, cheerfully. “There, I’ll lift you up to the gate, so you can see better—”
So Phronsie put up her little arms, and Polly lifted her and set her in a good place on the old post. “Now then, says I, look sharp, Phronsie, and pretty soon you’ll see Mr. Beggs and the boys coming back, and—”
“And will they bring the horsie with them?” asked Phronsie, folding her hands in her lap.
“Yes, of course, child,” said Polly, promptly, and keeping a tight hold of Phronsie’s little gown; “now watch, Phronsie,—here they come!”