"Where is it?" she exclaimed, turning them with quick fingers. "O dear! it was right here last evening."
"What is it?" asked Phronsie, from the depths of a big arm-chair, and looking up from her book. Then she saw as soon as she had asked the question that Polly was in trouble, so she laid down her book, and slid out of the chair. "What is it, Polly? Let me help you, do."
"Why, the Town Talk—that hateful old society thing," said Polly, throwing the papers to right and left. "You know, Phronsie; it has a picture of a bottle of ink, and a big quill for a heading. O dear! do help me, child, for she will get nervous if I am gone long."
"Oh! I know where that is," said Phronsie deliberately, laying a cool little hand on Polly's hot one.
"Where?" demanded Polly feverishly. "Oh, Phronsie! where?"
"Jack Rutherford has it."
Polly threw down the papers, and started for the door.
"He has gone," said Phronsie; "he went home almost an hour ago."
Polly turned sharply at her. "What did he want Town Talk for?"
"He said it was big, and he asked Grandpapa if he might have it, and
Grandpapa said, Yes. I don't know what he wanted it for," said
Phronsie. "And he took other newspapers, too, Polly; oh! ever so many."