“What is poor?” asked Barby, stopping singing.
“I know,” said Elyot; “it’s wearing rags like the ashman. Oh, I wish I could!”
“Oh, no!” cried Phronsie in horror; “that isn’t poor; that’s shiftless, Mamsie always used to say. Oh, we were just as nice! Well, you can’t think, children, how spick and span everything was!”
“What’s spick ’n’ span?” demanded Barby.
“Make her stop,” cried Elyot crossly; “we shall never hear all about it if she keeps asking questions every minute. Now go on, Phronsie.”
“Well,” said Phronsie, “now that corner’s all done beautifully, Barby; take care, or I shall prick your finger. Why, Polly would scrub and scrub the floor and the table, till I used to try to see my face in them, they were so bright.”
“They’re bright now,” declared both the boys, jumping off to investigate. Barby pushed her hair back from her round cheeks, and leaned over. “I don’t see my face, Phronsie,” she exclaimed.
“No, and I couldn’t see mine; but I always tried to, for Polly kept them so bright, and one day I remember I was scrubbing Seraphina, and”—
“Who’s Seraphina?” burst in Barby, coming back to crouch at Phronsie’s feet.
“Ow! Be still!” cried Elyot, with a small pinch.