“She doesn’t like my stories,” said Davie, getting up from the floor, his cheeks very much flushed. He came over and put his mouth close to Grandma’s cap. “And I can’t tell any good ones.”
“Well,” said Grandma, “that’s because she’s heard Polly’s stories. Ef I was you, I wouldn’t try to tell ’em.”
“What can I do?” cried Davie in despair. The flush died off, leaving his cheeks quite white, and he twisted his small hands in distress.
Grandma Bascom gave him a keen look, then bobbed her cap wisely till the frill quivered. “Now, Phronsie,” she said, “you must take care of Davie. He’ll be sick if you don’t.”
“Oh, Grandma,” exclaimed David, quite horrified at such a turn of affairs, “I’m not sick.” He tried to shout it into her ear, but she kept on, “Davie will be sick ef you don’t take care of him, Phronsie.”
“I’ll take care of Davie,” said Phronsie, wiping away the last tear on her pinafore, “and I shall put him to bed, so that he won’t be sick.”
“That’s my good little lamb,” said Grandma, her cap-frill bobbing worse than ever. “Now, Davie, you go an’ curl on your ma’s bed, an’—”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Davie. “Why, I’m a big boy, and I don’t want to go to bed in the day-time.” He was in such distress over the idea that his voice was very sharp, and Grandma heard every word.
“You ain’t as big as the parson,” said Grandma coolly, “an’ Mis Henderson said she put him to bed last week right in the middle o’ th’ day.” It was a long speech for Grandma to make, and she wheezed so at the end that Davie forgot everything else and ran and got her a cup of water.
“An’ I’m goin’ to stay here a spell, an’ Phronsie must set by th’ bed an’ watch you,” beginning again when she got her breath, and the cup was taken back.