“No—No—” Mrs. Pepper shook her head decidedly. And he went off.
“Oh, Mamsie, that wicked Old Man Peters!” Polly clasped her hands, and her brown eyes blazed. “I just want something dreadful to happen to him,” and she hovered over David bolstered up in Mamsie’s rocking chair, his legs and little shoulders bound up in old cotton bandages.
“Polly,” said Mother Pepper sternly, “never let me hear you say anything like that again.”
“I can’t help it,” said Polly, fighting with the tears. Then she gave it up and ran over to throw herself down on the floor and lay her head in Mother Pepper’s lap, “to think of Davie being hurt. Oh, Mamsie!”
“I’m not much hurt,” said Davie, poking up his head from the pillow against his back, “only my legs—they’re a little bad. Don’t cry, Polly,” he begged, dreadfully distressed.
“Our Davie!” sobbed Polly, huddling down further in her mother’s lap, “just think, Mamsie,—our Davie!”
Mrs. Pepper shut her lips together, but she smoothed Polly’s brown head. “Mother will see to it,” she said, “and you must never say anything like that again, Polly. Now wipe your eyes; here comes Dr. Fisher.”
“Well—well—well—” cried the little Doctor, coming in cheerily. He was very happy as Ben was getting along splendidly, while as for Phronsie, why she just got better and better every day. Oh, the measles wasn’t so very bad after all to fight. But now, here was Davie bolstered up in the big calico-covered chair. O dear, that was too bad!
“Well, my boy,” the little Doctor got over to the chair and looked down at him with keen eyes behind the big spectacles, “what’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not much hurt,” said Davie, “only my legs—they feel the worst.”