“O Elyot,” said Phronsie, “I couldn’t tell it all if I tried ever so hard.”
“Polly tells the best stories,” said King, pushing and picking the hair into place in the last corner.
“So she does,” said Phronsie; “there now, King-Fisher, that’s all you can do. Look out; my needle is coming up there,” as King with a final pull settled the last little wisp into place.
“Let me—let me,” begged Barby, thrusting her little hand in. “I want to do it last. Let me, King.”
“No,” said King stoutly, hanging to the corner. “I shall; it’s my mother’s cushion.”
“O King,” began Phronsie gently, “Mamsie would like it better if you let Barby do it. She’s so little.”
“She’s always pushing, just the same,” said King stoutly, “as if she was big folks.”
“Well, if you want to please Mamsie, you’ll let her do it,” went on Phronsie, pausing with needle in mid-air. “Hurry, now, children; I can’t wait any longer.”
“You may, Barby,” declared King, relinquishing with a mighty effort the pinched-up corner. “There, go ahead,” and he winked fast at her great satisfaction while she pushed and poked the wisps in with her fat little finger, humming contentedly meanwhile.
Phronsie flashed a smile over at King. “Now, children,” she said, “you must know we were very poor in those days, and”—