“What can we do?” asked Polly eagerly. “O papa-doctor! tell me, what can we do?” and she clasped her hands. “I’ll do just anything, if you’ll only tell me.”
The little doctor beamed on her. “Bless you, Polly,” he said, “I depend on you to do it all.”
“All?” cried Polly, aghast.
“Yes,” Dr. Fisher nodded briskly. “You see,—I must be quick, for that scamp of a Joe is listening with all his ears,—you see, Polly, Roslyn May has got it into his head that as soon as he is well, the old gentleman will spirit Phronsie away again.”
“He shouldn’t,” began Polly indignantly, “when Grandpapa has brought her clear over here just to show that he has given up all opposition.”
“Tut, tut, child!” said the little doctor; “you can’t reason with a sick man. All I say is, that Roslyn May has got it into his head that Phronsie is to melt away in some sort of fashion as soon as he gets well; and I can’t do much for him—I really can’t, Polly, as long as that is in his mind.” He shook his head, and looked so very dejected and miserable, that Polly’s heart ached for him.
“O Father Fisher,” she cried, “this is very dreadful! Oh, don’t look so!” seizing his hand; “perhaps something will happen,” she added, brightening up, “to make him believe that Phronsie is to belong to him.”
“There’s only one thing,” said the little doctor; and he put his mouth to Polly’s ear and whispered something. “Oh, no, no!” cried Polly, starting back, “it couldn’t ever be in all this world, here!”
“Why not?” Doctor Fisher set his spectacles straight, and looked at her.
“Because—because, why, Phronsie should be married at home, and have the biggest wedding, Papa Fisher, you ever saw, and such a beautiful one! Oh, no, no, no, no!” cried Polly, who couldn’t stop herself, but felt as if she were racing down hill, and all out of breath.