“O dear!” grumbled Joel. “What’ll we work on, Polly?”
“Well,” said Polly, “you and Davie can go and chop some kindlings for to-morrow morning.”
“We’re always chopping kindlings,” said Joel, peevishly.
“Of course,” said Polly, in a cheery voice, “because we’re always wanting them. Now go along, boys. I must sweep up, for we’ve made such a dust playing ‘Old Father Dubbin,’” and she dashed off after the broom.
“And I’m going to sweep up, too,” cried Phronsie, running over to the corner where her little broom was kept behind the wood-box.
“Come on, Dave, we’ve got to chop those old kindlings,” said Joel, gloomily, going over to the door.
“I’m going to bring in a lot,” said Davie, spreading his arms wide.
“I’m going to bring in enough for two hundred—no, five hundred mornings,” declared Joel, as they ran out to the woodshed.
“Now, Phronsie,” said Polly, when the sweeping up was all done, and the chairs placed back neatly against the wall, “I think you and I better set the supper-table. Ben will be here soon, you know.” She gave a long sigh and gazed out of the window. Oh, if Ben would only hurry and come! It was getting dark, and the hardest hour of all the day to have Mamsie away was drawing near.
“Bensie will be here soon,” hummed Phronsie, running over to help Polly lay the table cloth.