So Phronsie sat up quite straight on his knee, and he held her hands, and she never took her eyes from his face, but listened attentively to every word.
“You see, Phronsie, it’s just this way. I’ve been thinking over many things lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I made a mistake in sending Roslyn May off. So I’ve just been writing to him that it strikes me he would better run across again.”
All the pink color had gone from Phronsie’s cheek long ago, and she now sat pale and still, her brown eyes fastened on his face.
“Does that please you, child?” asked old Mr. King after a pause, and smoothing her yellow hair.
“Grandpapa, has some one been speaking to you about it, and wanting you to write to Roslyn?” she asked suddenly; the brown eyes flashed, and she looked at him steadily.
“No indeed; I thought it all out by myself,” he answered with conscious pride, “and it seems to me the best thing to be done. Really it does, Phronsie.”
“Do you wish it, Grandpapa?” she asked slowly.
“Yes, I do, child. Listen, now, Phronsie. You are not to cry, child, nor to feel badly; but you know Grandpapa is an old man, and cannot last forever, and”—
For answer, Phronsie dropped her head upon his breast, and cried bitterly. It was some time before he could soothe her, though he tried every means in his power. At last he said, “This is making me ill, child.”
Phronsie took up her head quickly, and put her hand caressingly over his white hair. “Does it, Grandpapa?” she asked, her face working convulsively.