“Why, she’s my Mamsie, and—”
“She?” screamed the farmer’s wife. “Oh, my soul an’ body! I thought ’twas a house.”
“Thunder!” ejaculated Mr. Brown; “now we’re in a fix, ef it’s a woman. Th’ Lord knows how we’ll ever find her.”
“Where’d you come from?” Mrs. Brown now found it impossible to keep the anxiety from running all up and down her big face. Phronsie put up her trembling little lips and pointed off, still into space.
“John,” his wife burst out, “we are in a fix, an’ that’s th’ solemn truth.”
The farmer took off his old cap and scratched his head. “Well, anyway, we’ve got th’ little gal, an’ you’ve always wanted one, Nancy.”
“Ef we can only keep her.” Mrs. Brown hugged Phronsie hungrily to her breast. “Oh, my little lamb!” she kept saying.
“I want my Mamsie!” said Phronsie, nearly smothered. “Please take me to my Mamsie!” and she struggled to get free.
“Don’t you want to go to a nice house?” began the farmer’s wife in a wheedling way, as she set her upon her knees.
“There—there.” Mr. Brown whipped out a big red handkerchief and wiped off the tears from the little face. “Ma, she’s a-cryin’,” he announced in an awful voice.