“And you blessed child,” cried Alexia, kissing her, “I knew the minute I’d asked you I’d said the wrong thing. To tell you the truth, Grace, I never do a single thing without asking Pickering first. Oh, dear me! but what shall we do? Things can’t be left to themselves so. Something must be done.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
GRANDPAPA DOES THE RIGHT THING.
THE little brown house door opened slowly, and some one came in. Phronsie raised her head. “Why, Grandpapa!” she exclaimed, “have you come home?”
“Yes; I thought I would, Phronsie; there wasn’t much to detain me, and I finished early.”
Phronsie had risen and hurried over to him, putting her hand affectionately through his arm. “You are not sick, Grandpapa dear?” she asked, anxiously looking up into his face.
“No, no, child; that is, only sick of myself,” he answered with a short laugh. Phronsie stood quite still in a puzzled way, regarding him closely. “There’s nothing to worry about, Phronsie, nothing at all. Only I thought I’d have a little talk with you. Come here, child.” He took a seat in a big easy-chair, and drew her to his knee. “There, now we can be comfortable.”
Phronsie fixed her brown eyes upon him wonderingly.
“Phronsie, I’ve always been a curious old chap. I wouldn’t say so to any one else, only to you, dear; but I have.”
“O Grandpapa!” cried Phronsie convulsively, and throwing her arms around his neck, “don’t, don’t, dear Grandpapa! You’ve always and ever been beautiful,” she sobbed in great distress.
“Well, there, there, child,” said the old gentleman, patting her back as if she were three years old, and mightily pleased with her tribute, “you love the old man, and that’s enough. But what I should have done without you, child, no living mortal knows. I’m sure I cannot tell. Well; and now, Phronsie, I want to say something, and you must hear me. Sit up, dear, and let me see your eyes.”