“I want my Mamsie,” said Phronsie, not offering to stir. Her lips trembled and Polly knew in another moment that the tears would come in a torrent; so she flung her hands clear of the soap suds and started to run over to her. Instead she plunged into the parson’s wife just making up her mind to come around the corner into full view.
“O dear!” gasped Polly in dismay, her soapy hands flying up against the clean blue print dress.
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Henderson, “soap never hurt any calico dress,” seizing the wet hands. “O my!” and she hurried over to Phronsie, too scared at Polly’s plunge to cry.
“Well—well.” Then as Polly ran to get a dry cloth to wipe off the front of the clean print dress, the parson’s wife sat down on one of the big stones that Ben and the other boys had brought into “the orchard” to play tea-party with whenever the much-prized hours from work would allow.
Phronsie came slowly to her. “I want my Mamsie,” she said, patting Mrs. Henderson’s gown to attract attention. “I want her very much indeed, I do.”
“Yes, I know.” Then the parson’s wife lifted her on her lap. “So does Polly want Mamsie—and Davie. Where is Davie?”
Phronsie pointed a small finger up to the branches of the apple-tree.
“Oh, Davie, are you there?” Mrs. Henderson cocked up one eye. There sat Davie huddled up in a crotch of the tree, his head in his hands. “Dear me. I thought it was a big bird!”
“Davie is a big bird,” echoed Phronsie, smiling through the tears that were just ready to roll down.
“Isn’t he,” said the parson’s wife with a little laugh. “Well, now, come down, big bird.”