“John—John!” screamed his wife, from the high wagon, “are you goin’ to stay all day with that child in th’ middle of the road, or do you want me to come an’ look after her?”
“You stay where you be, Nancy,” said Mr. Brown. “I don’t know no more’n th’ last one,” this to Phronsie, “where ’tis you want to go to. But I’ll take you there, all th’ same. Now, says I, hold tight, little un.”
“I will,” said Phronsie in a satisfied little voice, putting her arms around his neck. So he bundled her up in his great arms and marched to the high wagon.
“Give her to me,” cried his wife, hungrily extending her hands.
“I wouldn’t ef I didn’t have to drive,” said Mr. Brown, as he clumsily set Phronsie on the broad lap. “She’s hurt her arm. Be careful, Mother,” as he got into the wagon and began to drive off.
“My soul an’ body!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown, pausing in the hugging process now set up, to regard the little bloody arm. “Oh, how’d you get that?”
“I’m going to my mamsie,” announced Phronsie joyfully, and ignoring the injured arm. Then she laughed, showing all her little teeth, and snuggled against Mrs. Brown’s big shawl.
“Ain’t she too cunnin’ for anythin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Brown. “Did you ever see th’ like? But how’d you git hurt?” she demanded, turning to Phronsie again.
“It was the wood,” said Phronsie, gravely regarding her arm again. “And I’m going to Mamsie.”
“She keeps a-sayin’ that,” said Mr. Brown. “Now, how in thunder will we know where to take her?”