So Davie pulled off his shoe, and old Mr. Beebe sat down and pretty soon there was a brand-new shoestring in it, and the old one lay on the floor.
“I think th’ mate to that string is pretty poor,” said the little old shoemaker, peering at Davie’s other foot critically; “give me that shoe, Davie,” and when it was in his hand, he pulled out the shoestring. “Yes, it’s wore in spots,” he declared.
At last Davie was on his way home. Didn’t the shoes feel good though; the mended one all strong and just as good as ever, and with new shoestrings, too! He wanted to dance—but stopped suddenly. There was Polly—was she going away for a visit to the city? He went slowly up the path leading to the little brown house, and opened the green door. There were Mamsie and the others, and David knew by her face what she was going to say.
“Children,” she began, “you know how good Jasper has been to us! And think of Phronsie!” She gathered her up in her arms to hold her tightly to her breast, and her voice broke. “What can we ever do for him!”
“But, Mamsie,” began Ben, “Polly—we can’t—” He couldn’t get any farther, and his head went down to hide his face on his knees.
“Oh, I’m not going!” cried Polly passionately, a little red spot coming on either cheek. “You needn’t think of it, Ben,” and she threw her arms around his shoulders—while Joel roared, “She isn’t going—she isn’t!” and he ran over to throw his arms across Polly’s—till Ben was nearly smothered. David longed to add himself to them, and he started, but catching Mother Pepper’s eye, he settled back and held his hands tightly together in dread of what was coming, for Mrs. Pepper was speaking.
“Don’t say that, Polly,” she said reprovingly. “You must think, child, before you speak.”
“Oh, I don’t want to think, Mamsie!” cried Polly, wildly, and deserting Ben, she plunged over to Mrs. Pepper’s chair and threw herself on her knees. “Mamsie, don’t make me go!” she begged, burying her face on Phronsie’s small feet.
“I never should make you go, Polly,” Mrs. Pepper stroked the brown hair. “Mother feels badly enough to think of your going. It must be as you say, Polly.”
So there it was left. And every now and then Polly would break away from whatever she was doing, even if setting the supper-table, and rush up in a torrent of tears. “Oh, I can’t go—Mamsie, I can’t!” And then she would fly back to her work to creep up presently with “Jasper saved Phronsie for us, Mamsie!”