“Fuff—siss!” said the little white kitten again, just as there was a rattle at the door, and Polly came in quite slowly, because her arms were full of wood, and she couldn’t walk fast.
“Oh, Polly!” screamed Phronsie, “you’ve come back!” And she hurried over to her, kitten and all, the little doctor following quickly.
“See—see!” said Phronsie, dreadfully excited, and holding up the fluffy white ball that was spitting dreadfully, while little Doctor Fisher precipitately seized every bit of the wood out of Polly’s arms and dumped it in the big wood-box back of the stove.
“Now, says I,” he exclaimed, with a quick eye at the stove, “I guess some of those sticks want to go in here.” And in a minute he had the cover off, and before long the wood was crackling merrily away, and Polly was rubbing her cold hands together, thinking how good it was to be in such a nice warm place.
“And so you’ve been out working at the woodpile,” said the little doctor, with a keen glance at her red cheeks.
“Oh, I didn’t get it at the woodpile,” said Polly, flinging off her hood. “Isn’t that the dearest little kitten in all this world!” she cried, rapturously.
“You didn’t get it at the woodpile!” said Doctor Fisher, straightening up to look at her in astonishment. “Where in the world, Polly—” he began.
“Oh, Grandma Bascom gave it to me,” said Polly, with a little laugh. “You see Ben split her wood all up—a whole lot of it—for her, and ours is too big, and I couldn’t find the hatchet, and—”
“No, no, I should think not,” assented the little Doctor Fisher, hastily. “Well, now, you are all right, Polly,” with a glance at the stove.
“We’re all right,” said Polly, with a merry little laugh and skipping around the kitchen, Phronsie huddling up the white fluffy kitten tightly, and flying after her.