"Come on, Phron," sang out Joel, "up in Polly's room—she wants you," and the three hurried off.
"Now, Joel," said Polly, closing the door and facing him desperately, "you are Mamsie's own boy."
"I should think so," said Joel, "I'm not anybody's else. Is that all you brought me up here to say?" thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking at her.
"And you can make her happy, or just as miserable as I can't say what," went on Polly incoherently.
"What in the world are you firing at?" demanded the boy, visions of certain pranks at school unpleasantly before him. "Don't shoot over my head, Polly, but keep somewhere near your mark," he advised irritably.
Phronsie surveyed the two with wide eyes, and a not wholly pleased manner.
"Mamsie does not want a big wedding," declared Polly, going to the heart of the matter, "but dear kind Grandpapa thinks it will please us children, and so he wants to give her one."
"And so it will," cried Joel, "please us children. Whoop la! give us your hand, Phronsie, this is the way we'll dance afterwards at the party."
"I don't want to dance," said Phronsie, standing quite still in the middle of the room. The morning sun shone across her yellow hair, but no light came into the large eyes. "Polly wants something, first; what is it, Joel?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Joel, poised on a careless foot, and executing a remarkable pas seul. "I don't believe she knows herself. Polly is often queer, you know, Phronsie," he added cheerfully.