“Why, Polly Pepper! Light the candle!” exclaimed Joel. “Mamsie wouldn’t light it so early.”
Phronsie stopped suddenly in putting her blue and white plate on the table. “I want my Mamsie,” she said soberly. Then she sat down in a little bunch on the floor, and put her head in her lap.
“O dear me!” cried Polly in dismay. Would Ben ever come! “I wonder if you don’t all want me to tell you a story.”
“Oh!” screamed Joel and David together, “we do—we do!” running over to her.
“Well, I can’t tell a story ever in all this world while Phronsie is crying,” said Polly, at her wits’ end what to do next.
“Phronsie—stop crying!” Joel rushed over and shook her pink calico sleeve. “Polly can’t tell a story while you’re crying. She won’t stop,” he announced wrathfully.
For Phronsie kept on in a smothered little voice, “I want my Mamsie.”
“Phronsie,” Davie kneeled down on the kitchen floor beside her. “Please stop. Polly wants to tell a story. You’ll make Polly sick if you don’t stop crying.”
Up came Phronsie’s yellow head, and she wiped off the tears with one fat little hand. “Do I make you sick, Polly?” she asked, in a tone of deep concern.
“Yes, I think I shall be,” said Polly gravely, “if you don’t stop crying.”