"If you're glad," said Phronsie weakly, "I don't care. But please don't cry if you are not glad, Polly."
"Well, now we're fixed," said Polly as gaily as she could. "Give me your hand, Pet. There, now, good-night."
"Good-night," said Phronsie. Polly could feel her tucking the other hand under her cheek on the pillow, and then, blessed sound—the long quiet breathing that told of rest.
"Oh! better, is she?" Mrs. Chatterton looked up quickly to see Mrs. Whitney's pale face. "Well, I supposed she would be. I thought I'd sit here and wait to know, since you were all so frightened. But I knew it wouldn't amount to much. Now, girl," nodding over to the maid still in the corner, "you may get me to bed." And she stretched her stiff limbs, and held out her hand imperatively.
"It was very fortunate that I did not tell," she said, when the slow passage to her own apartments had been achieved. "Now if the child will only keep still, all will be well."
XVIII
THE GIRLS HAVE POLLY AGAIN
"Phronsie shall have a baked apple this morning," said Mother Fisher, coming into the sunny room where Phronsie lay propped up against the pillows.
"Did Papa-Doctor say so?" asked Phronsie, a smile of supreme content spreading over her wan little face.
"Yes, he did," said her mother; "as nice an apple, red and shiny as we could find, is downstairs baking for you, Phronsie. When it's done, Sarah is to bring it up."