“Sure as I can be,” declared Polly. “Do go back—O dear!” With a glance to see that the bedroom door really was shut, Polly rushed over to Mamsie’s old calico-covered chair, and flung herself, broom and all, down before it.
“I’m the worst girl that ever lived,” she cried, stuffing her fingers up before her mouth. Suppose Phronsie should open the bedroom door again!
Just then a mouse over in the corner gave a scratch against the wainscot. Polly hopped to her feet, afraid it was the bedroom door, and wiped her eyes on the end of the sweeping-cap, that flapped down over her shoulder. Then she tucked it up, and began to send the broom flying over the dust and crumbs on the kitchen floor. Joel ran in and found her so.
“Polly,” he began wrathfully, “why can’t we go to Mrs. Brown’s house to-morrow? Why can’t we, Polly?” He laid hold of the broom-handle, so that she had to stop chasing the dust and crumbs.
“Because Mrs. Brown didn’t ask us,” said Polly coolly. “Let go of the broom, Joe. I can’t sweep when you do so.”
“Well, why didn’t she ask us?” demanded Joel in a louder key.
“Hush—Mamsie will hear you,” warned Polly, pointing to the door. “Because she didn’t want us.”
“She ought to want us,” Joel dropped his voice, but his black eyes blazed in indignation.
Polly burst into a little laugh. “When folks have company they can ask any one they want, and not ask any one they don’t want.”
“Not a single one?” persisted Joel, still hanging to the broom.