“Young man,” roared Farmer Brown at him. “You set down to that table. Now, Ma, dish up some hot meat an’ taters.”
“And a glass of milk,” said Mrs. Brown, hurrying into the pantry.
“I want some milk,” cried Phronsie, hungrily stretching out her arms. So before David hardly knew how, there she was sitting on the big family Bible that Mr. Brown placed on one of the chairs, before the dinner table. When she saw it was really and truly milk with a frothy top, she was quite overcome and sat looking at it.
“Drink it, little gal,” said Farmer Brown, with a hand on her yellow hair.
Phronsie laughed a pleased little gurgle, and set her small teeth on the edge of the mug, drinking as fast as she could.
“Hulloa—hold up a bit,” said the farmer, with a big hand on her arm. Phronsie’s blue eyes over the cup-edge turned on him inquiringly. “Go slower, little gal.” Mr. Brown took the mug and set it on the table. “Th’ milk will wait for you.”
“It is nice,” said Phronsie, beaming delightedly at him.
“So ’tis,” said the farmer, wiping off the milk streaks from her face. “An’ you shall have th’ rest by an’ by.”
“Shall I?” asked Phronsie, looking at the mug affectionately.
“Sure,” declared Mr. Brown.