Polly set Barby in her little crib, then sped back. “No, Grace,” she said, “she won’t write; you can trust me, dear.”
“She always writes evenings when she’s anything on her mind,” said Grace; “and she’d hurry about this.” But upon Mrs. King’s assuring her that she would take the care of this upon herself, Grace cuddled down again, and let Phronsie comfort her.
And by and by, while Polly’s messenger was speeding to the city with just such a letter as she knew how to write, addressed to Mrs. Carroll Atherton, Mrs. Higby herself came up with Grace’s supper; and when she saw how cheery things were, and how everything was beginning to mend, she put her arms akimbo, and said, “My land! but you’ll be as spry as a cricket in a week.”
“I brought you some flowers,” said Phronsie, laying down a little bunch where Grace’s fingers could reach them.
Grace looked at them, but did not offer to touch them.
“What is it?” asked Phronsie.
“Might I just have one little sprig of those you held in your hand when you came after I was hurt, Miss Phronsie?”
“Why, yes, you may. Mrs. Higby, will you get them? You may have the whole bunch,” she said to Grace.
“Oh, only just one sprig, please,” said Grace eagerly.
But the whole bunch of lilies-of-the-valley was brought; and Grace held them in her hands, and buried her face in them, and then she opened her mouth obediently, while Mrs. Higby, after tucking a napkin under her chin, fed her from a generous plate of milk-toast, and everything was getting quite jolly.