“I’m whisperin’,” said old Mrs. Beebe, holding her plump hands tightly together.
Mrs. Pepper hurried up to the loft to see how Ben was getting on.
And in came the little shoemaker, his round face quite red, he had hurried so.
“Is she bad?” The whisper was so much worse than that of old Mrs. Beebe, that she got out of the big chair and hurried over to him. “Pa, you mustn’t—she’ll hear you.” She pointed to the bedroom and twitched his sleeve.
“I ain’t a-talkin’, I’m whisperin’,” he said. “Is Polly bad, Ma?” He pulled out his bandanna handkerchief and wiped his anxious face.
“Oh, I d’no,” said Mrs. Beebe disconsolately. “Everything bad that Mis Pepper gits, deary me!”
“Well, I brought some pink sticks for Joel and Davie,” said old Mr. Beebe, pulling out the paper from his pocket. “There Ma,” he laid them down on the table. “Where’s th’ boys?” he peered around the old kitchen.
“They’re over to Deacon Blodgett’s, I s’pose,” said Mrs. Beebe. “O dear me, they’ve got to work worse’n ever, now Ben’s sick.”
“Sho, now!” exclaimed the little shoemaker, dreadfully upset. “Where’s Mis Pepper?”
“Up there,” old Mrs. Beebe pointed to the loft stairs.