“Come, Phronsie, you and I must stay in the bedroom while Polly sweeps up the kitchen.” Mrs. Pepper picked up her big work basket from the table.
“I shall sew on my child’s dress to wear to my Mrs. Brown’s to-morrow,” hummed Phronsie, gathering up Seraphina and some scraps of calico and getting up from the kitchen floor to patter after her mother.
“O dear me!” Polly leaned on the broom-handle as the bedroom door was shut; “why can’t I ever go to spend the day somewhere?”
Two tears rolled down from the brown eyes and wet the broom-handle.
“They’ve got chickens and pigs, Mrs. Brown said so—and there’s a cunning little brook back of the farm-yard. Why can’t I go?”
Away went the old broom with a clang to the kitchen floor.
The bedroom door opened and Phronsie’s yellow head appeared.
“I thought I heard a noise—Oh, Polly, are you hurt?” she cried.
“No,” Polly rushed over to the broom and picked it up. Her cheeks were very red. “Don’t come out, Phronsie,—I’m all right.”
“Are you sure?” said Phronsie anxiously.