“What, Grandpapa?” she asked, as he seemed to wait her reply.
“Yes, such a good piece of work,” he ran on. Then he chuckled, well pleased. “You must know, Phronsie,” for he was determined to tell it in a way to suit himself, “that I was sitting on the back veranda—Polly’s gone to town to-day, you know.”
“Yes, Grandpapa.”
“Well, and the house was quiet, thanks to you and the little brown house, and I had a chance to read the morning paper in peace.” This he said, unconscious of the fact that every one knew quite well he courted the presence of the children on any and every occasion. “Well, I had considerable to read; the news, strange to say, is very good, really very good to-day, so it took me quite a long time.” He forgot to mention that he had lost himself a half-hour or so in a nap; these occurrences were never to be commented on in the family. “And I was turning the paper—it’s abominable that editors mix things up so; it’s eternally turning and returning the sheet, to find what you want. It’s very hard, Phronsie, when we pay such prices for articles, that we cannot have them to suit us, child.”
“Yes, Grandpapa,” said Phronsie patiently.
“Well, don’t look at those youngsters, Phronsie; they’re all right now. They won’t fight any more to-day.”
“O Grandpapa!”
“I mean it, child. Well, I was turning that contemptible paper for about the fiftieth time,—I wanted to read Brinkerhoff’s editorial,—when I caught sight of a figure making around the lawn to the front veranda. Thinks I, ‘that looks wonderfully like Roslyn May.’”
The pink glow in Phronsie’s round cheek went suddenly out.
“And so it was, as sure as you’re here on my knee.” He had her hand in both of his, and was affectionately pressing it. “Yes, Phronsie, there was that fellow. So I jumped up, and told Johnson to send him around to me; and he came.”