“Yes,” said Polly, “Joel’s will be there, too, and Davie’s. I declare, almost every single one of us are in that pan; our biscuits, I mean. So put yours in, Phronsie.”
“Are yours there, Polly?” asked Phronsie, stopping with her hand holding the small pat of dough almost over the pan.
“Er—no,” said Polly; “I didn’t have any in this pan, Phronsie.”
“Then I don’t want to put my biscuits in,” said Phronsie, pulling back her hand. “I want them to go in next to yours, Polly, I do.”
“O dear me!” said Polly, “now whatever shall we do, Ben?” over Phronsie’s yellow head.
“I don’t know,” said Ben, at his wit’s end. Still, something must be done, for Polly was dreadfully worried, and to have Polly troubled was about the worst thing that could possibly happen, in Ben’s estimation.
“Now, Phronsie,” he said, “if you don’t put your biscuits in the pan, there, just where Polly has said, you’ll make her feel very bad.”
“Will it make her sick?” asked Phronsie, slowly, a worried look coming over her face.
“I don’t know,” said Ben, honestly, “but she’ll feel very bad, I do know that, unless you put your biscuits just in that very spot.” He pointed to the little place in the centre of the pan left for them.
Phronsie gave a long sigh. She wanted dreadfully to put her little biscuit in next to Polly’s and have it bake alongside of hers. Still, it never would do to have Polly feel very bad, as Ben said she would, so she reached out her hand and laid the little dough-pat just where she was told to.