The old gentleman led her back to her seat with a puzzled air, and stood in front of her waiting for her to proceed; then, seeing that she made no headway, he exclaimed in displeasure, “Why, Polly, am I so very dreadful that you cannot come to make a simple request of me without all this fear?”
“Oh! it isn’t a simple request, dear Grandpapa,” said Polly, clasping her fingers nervously as she realized that all this was only making matters much worse for Phronsie and for Roslyn; yet for her life she could get no farther than “it’s—it’s”—
Old Mr. King took a turn or two down the apartment, then came back to her with such a displeased countenance as she had never seen him wear before; at sight of which Polly forgot all the attempts at a proper introduction to her plea, and crying out, “O father, dear! do let Phronsie and Roslyn be married here; for Dr. Fisher thinks he won’t get well unless you do,” she threw herself into his arms, and sobbed like a child.
“Is that all!” exclaimed Mr. King, patting her brown hair.
“All!” cried Polly, taking up her head suddenly to look at him; “all, Grandpapa! Are you willing?” she gasped.
The old gentleman smiled down at her. “Child, I’m not only willing, I’m glad,” he said. “Did you think I’d no more sense, Polly, than to make my little girl any further trouble? They shall be married to-morrow if they want to be. Now send Phronsie here to me, just as quickly as you can fly for her,” he commanded, in such a merry tone that Polly laughed in glee. Seeing which, as it was what he had aimed at, he got so very cheery as he escorted her to the door and saw her down the hall, that she ran off on light feet. “Tell her to hurry,” called old Mr. King as a last word before she disappeared.
“Why, man alive!” said little Dr. Fisher, left alone with his patient, “I tell you, you are in a fair way to recovery, if you only think so.” He set his big spectacles straight on his nose, and glared at the white face on the pile of pillows in what he meant to be a reassuring way.
Roslyn May shook his head, and clasped his long, thin fingers together.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Dr. Fisher, as he felt something coming in his eyes that caused him to pull out his big handkerchief, and blow his nose violently. “You are the last man I should expect to preach pluck to. You’ve had a double allowance of backbone all your life, I take it,” he added with a short laugh.
“I used to think that I was the possessor of one,” said Roslyn, weakly smiling.