“I would, Davie,” said Deacon Blodgett encouragingly.
David drew a long breath and began again—while the circle crowded up around the sugar-barrel.
“Mamsie told us to stay in the bedroom, and to play something. She said we might make just as much noise as we wanted to, for Polly mustn’t hear things in th’ kitchen, and we mustn’t come out until she called us. And Polly said, ‘Oh, can’t we play in the kitchen because the bedroom is so small?’ and we wanted to play ‘Old Father Dubbin,’ because Phronsie—”
“Who’s old Father Dubbin?” interrupted Tom, the young farmer.
“He isn’t anybody,” said Davie, shaking his head. “Polly made him up, and we play him when she lets us.”
“Oh,” said Tom, “I thought ’twas somebody in Badgertown—new folks, mebbe, who’d moved in.”
“Go on, Davie,” begged the woman, whose daughter Jenny had been cured of pneumonia by Dr. Fisher, and she pressed further into the circle.
“Mamsie said, ‘No, Polly, you must all stay in the bedroom until I call you,’ and Mamsie patted Polly’s head, on top of the bandage, and—”
“Bandage?” repeated another of the men in the listening group.
“Yes, don’t you see Polly’s eyes were tied up.” Davie’s voice trembled, and he had hard work, as the remembrance of it all swept over him, to keep the tears back.