“I cannot do anything,” exclaimed the woman petulantly, and turning away her head, as she huddled up against the cabin sofa; “my heart is broken. I’ve lost all—all—and at the last some villain twitched away my bag of jewels. Oh! what shall I do?”
“Do you talk of jewels,” cried old Mrs. Benson at her, her eyes blazing underneath her white hair, “at such a time as this—oh, my lamb!” chafing busily the cold hands.
“And I really cannot help you,” whined the other, “for I am nearly dead myself.”
“Grandpapa!” Phronsie opened her eyes, and put her hand weakly up.
“Yes, yes, deary,” said the old woman comfortingly. “Has he come to?” her lips framing the words over to the surgeon.
“No.”
“Oh, my Lord! Yes, yes, deary. There, there, my lamb.”
“Where is Grandpapa?” asked Phronsie faintly.
“He’s right here, my pretty lamb,” said the old woman, her hot tears raining down on Phronsie’s cold face.
Phronsie gave a sigh of relief. “Joel,” she tried to say, but the sounds died away in her throat.