At that Phronsie uttered a low cry, “Oh, don’t let my Polly be sick—don’t let her, Mamsie!” then she screamed in dismay.
“Polly,” said Mother Pepper, putting the stockings into the big mending-basket with a hasty hand, and drawing Phronsie to her lap, “now I guess you’ll have to do your best, my child, to set matters right.—There, there, Phronsie, stop screaming,—Polly’s all well.”
Polly felt for the first minute as if she could never lift her head and speak cheerily to the children. Oh, how much she would give to be Phronsie’s age, and be cuddled and allowed to have her cry out! But Mamsie’s words! She swallowed hard the terrible lump in her throat, wiped off the tears, and said brokenly, “I’m all right,—there, see, Pet,” and put up her head.
When Phronsie saw that Polly could really move, she stopped screaming; and Davie began to smile, “I guess she ain’t sick.”
“No, indeed,” said Polly, finding it easier to control herself since she had begun, and hopping to her feet; “I’m going back to my baking,” she cried.
“So do,” cried mother Pepper approvingly, with a little smile over at Polly, that ran right down into the sad little heart.
“May I bake?” cried Phronsie, the last tear rolling off by itself in a lonely fashion. “May I, Polly, may I?” and she scrambled down from her mother’s lap, and ran over to the table.
“Yes, indeed,” cried Polly, delighted at the change in affairs.
“Then I shall,” said Davie; “at least when Joel gets out. May I call him, Mamsie?” he begged.