“Well, why didn’t you dust the books just as Mrs. Henderson told you? It didn’t take long, I’m sure, to find out about that boy.”
“I wanted to see if other boys were going to school, and had slates and pencils—O dear!” he sobbed.
“Well, now I guess I know all about it,” said Polly. “Phronsie, you must stop crying,” for Phronsie was softly wailing on the floor in front of Mamsie’s old chair. “You forgot about dusting the books, Davie?”
“Yes, I did,” said Davie. “O dear!” and he burrowed further than ever in her arms.
“Well, that was bad,” said Polly, “when she told you to do it. But it’s worse to cry about it now—because crying doesn’t help it any. Well, now, is there anything else to tell me?”
“Peletiah came up in the attic, and told me to come down to dinner. And Mrs. Henderson called me and—”
“And you didn’t go?” cried Polly in astonishment.
“No, I couldn’t have any dinner, I’d been bad—and I ran home.”
“O dear—dear!” exclaimed Polly in great distress. To have one of the children lacking in politeness was a terrible thing, and here was a blow that quite unnerved her. When David saw that, he was quite overcome, and he cried on steadily.
“Something must be done,” thought Polly. “O dear, if Mamsie were only here.”