“Are you crying because you haven’t any little girl?” Phronsie gazed in dismay at the tears, while the large hands fumbled at their task.
Mrs. Brown tried to speak, but it was no use. Down fell the pink calico strings, and she put her hands over her face and sobbed.
“Don’t cry,” begged Phronsie, dreadfully distressed.
“If you’d be my little girl,” said the farmer’s wife, “p’raps—”
Phronsie scuttled over to Mother Pepper on frightened little feet, the pink sunbonnet flying off to the floor.
“I mean jest for to-day,” cried the farmer’s wife after her, scared out of her tears, and wiping them off.
Mrs. Pepper laid her hand soothingly on the yellow hair. “She wants you to let her do things for you, Phronsie—just as if you were her own little girl.”
“And can I go back to the little brown house?” asked Phronsie, clutching fast her mother’s gown, and casting fearful glances at the big woman who had forgotten to get up from her knees.
“Yes, dear, you can go back with me and with Davie,” Mamsie smiled reassuringly.
“Then you may do things for me,” said Phronsie, going back to the big woman.