"Hush!" Dr. Fisher put his hand over the mother's lips.
"Don't please bite me very hard. I won't come up again to your house.
Oh! where's Grandpapa?"
Old Mr. King put his head on his hands, and sobbed aloud.
The little white face moved uneasily.
"Grandpapa always comes when I want him," in piteous tones.
"Father," said Jasper, laying a hand on the bowed shoulders, "you would better come out. We'll call you when she comes to herself."
But Mr. King gave no sign of hearing.
A half-hour ticked slowly away, and Phronsie spoke again. "It's growing dark, and I suppose they will never come. Dear mouse"—the words died away and she seemed to sleep.
"I shall not tell," Mrs. Chatterton was saying to herself in the other room; "what good could it do? Oh! this vile air is stifling. Will no one come to say she is better?" And so the night wore on.
As morning broke, Phronsie opened her eyes, and gave a weak little cry. Polly sprang from her knees at the foot of the bed, and staggered toward the child.