“And to think,” said Phronsie, gravely regarding Elyot, “that you should fly at him, when he only wanted to protect Mamsie’s dear old cushion. O Elyot! I am so surprised at you for pulling it to pieces.”
“I only wanted to see inside it; you said Mamsie and Uncle Ben made a Santa Claus wig of it once; I was going to put it right back,” said Elyot stoutly. Yet he looked at the ceiling diagonally, not trusting himself a glance into Phronsie’s brown eyes. “Say, you don’t suppose Grandmamsie will know?” he asked suddenly.
“I suppose I must tell Mamsie everything,” said Phronsie soberly. “I promised to, you know. And, besides, we always have.”
Elyot shivered all over his small frame, while King howled, and burrowed deeper than ever in Phronsie’s lap.
“But I can tell her how sorry you two boys are,” Phronsie went on, “and that you never, never will do such a naughty thing again; that is, if you never will, boys.”
“There! I got it all out alone by myself,” said Barby.
“Oh, we never will!” they both protested over and over; and King came up out of his shelter, and wiped his eyes, and the two put their arms around each other, and made up splendidly; then turned to hear Barby say, “There, I got it all out alone by myself;” and there was the hair out of Mamsie’s cushion all sprawled over the floor.
While the children were picking this up, and crowding it back into the big calico cover, Phronsie making Elyot do the best part of the work, as he was older, and had helped Barby along, King working vigorously, as penance, old Mr. King called, “Now, Phronsie, I want you, as those youngsters seem to be straightened out;” and she had gone and sat on his knee, her usual place in a conference.
“Well, I’ve just done such a good stroke of work, child,” he said complacently, pulling softly the golden waves of hair that lay over her cheek.