“Come down, big bird,” cried Phronsie, clapping her hands and hopping up and down, as Polly ran out with the clean cloth.
“Now that is as good as ever,” declared Mrs. Henderson, as Polly wiped off all trace of the soap suds. “Well, here comes Davie,” as he slid slowly down from branch to branch.
“That’s a good boy, Davie,” said Polly approvingly, the sparkle coming back to the brown eyes.
“Isn’t he?” said Mrs. Henderson. “Well, now, Davie, I wonder if you won’t come over to the parsonage and help me this morning?”
“Can I help you?” asked Davie, raising his swollen eyes to her.
“Yes, indeed; ever so much,” declared Mrs. Henderson quickly. “I’ve some work to have done in setting up my attic, and you can help me.”
“Then I’ll come,” said Davie, with a long breath of satisfaction.
“Now that’s good,” said the parson’s wife.
“I want to go, too,” said Phronsie, laying hold of Mrs. Henderson’s gown.
“Oh, no,” said the parson’s wife, “you must stay and help Polly. Poor Polly—see how busy she is!” pointing over to the wash-tub where Polly was splashing away for dear life.