“WHAT a pity that Johnny couldn’t come to the candy party,” sighed Phronsie the next day, looking over at the little brown house across the lane, which presented the same serene appearance, as if such jovial affairs had not been; “but I suppose Mrs. Fargo knew best, and he really was too tired, as they’d just come.”
“Mrs. Fargo surely does know best,” said Polly, stopping long enough in her trial of a very difficult passage in the sonata to fling this over her shoulder to Phronsie; “for you know, Phronsie, Johnny is just awful when he’s tired out.”
“Yes; I know,” said Phronsie, with another sigh, “but then he’s Johnny, you know, Polly.”
“And the dearest dear of a Johnny too!” cried Polly warmly, going on with her practising. “O Phronsie, supposing I shouldn’t play this—good!” She stopped suddenly, and leaned both hands on the music-rest at the dreadful thought.
Phronsie stopped looking over the children’s books on the table, and, setting them straight, came over to her side.
“You can’t make a mistake,” she breathed confidently. “Why, Polly, you play it beautifully!”
“But I may,” broke in Polly recklessly. “Oh, I may, Phronsie! And then, oh, dear! I could never hold my head up in all this world. It would be so very dreadful for Jasper and the children, for me not to play it as it ought to be.”
Phronsie leaned over Polly’s shoulder, and put two soft arms around her neck. “You will play it good, Polly,” she declared; “and Mamsie would say,—I know she would,—that you’re not to think of what you’ll do at the time, till the time comes.”
“You blessed child!” cried Polly, whirling around on the music-stool. “O Phronsie! you’re just such a comfort as you were that day when Grandpapa brought you and put you in my arms, when I broke down practising, and I’d almost made up my mind to go home. Now, then, I’ll just stop worrying, and play ahead.”
And she sat up straight, and flashed all the brilliant passages over again, Phronsie standing quite still to watch Polly’s fingers flying up and down.