“O Mamsie!” exclaimed Polly imploringly.
“Go straight along, Joey,” said Mrs. Pepper; “and when you feel right about it, you may come back.”
Joel laid down his clumsy hammer, and his round face working dreadfully, he stumbled off, and down the rickety steps, and presently they could hear him shut the old door fast.
“O Mamsie—Mamsie!” Polly sprang to her feet, and rushed tumultuously across the room, and threw herself at Mrs. Pepper’s feet. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, burying her face in the blue-checked apron—“and I am the one who ought to be sent into the Provision Room.”
“You’re too big to send there, Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper sadly; “why, you’re ten years old.” She laid down her mending, and her toil-worn hands smoothed the brown hair gently.
“But I made Joel say the bad things,” cried Polly gustily, her shoulders shaking with her efforts not to cry aloud.
Phronsie, who had turned in her chair where she had been looking out of the window, at the unusual disturbance in the old kitchen, now got down very gravely, and came over to Mother Pepper’s corner.
“What is the matter with Polly?” she asked with wide, disapproving eyes.
“Mamsie will take care of Polly,” said Mrs. Pepper.
“She’s sick, I guess,” said little Davie wonderingly.