“Oh, my!” exclaimed all the little Peppers together.
“Yes; and it was rich, and fat, and juicy,” said Polly, for her life not being able to keep from saying it.
“O Polly! I want some, I do,” broke in little David imploringly. Joel was just going to say so himself, but he caught Polly’s eye.
“Well, you can’t have any,” she said grimly. And she set her teeth together hard. How splendidly she could make a chicken-pie if she ever had the chance! Why couldn’t the little brown house ever have anything? And for a moment she drooped her shoulders in a sorry little fashion, and all the brightness went out of her round face.
“We never have anything,” said little Davie plaintively.
“Never,” said Phronsie sadly, shaking her yellow head. And there they sat, two sorry little figures, just ready to cry.
“Be still,” said Joel, with a savage pinch on Davie’s arm.
“Ow!”
“Well, you’re making Polly sick.”
At the word “sick” Phronsie raised her head. “Are you sick, Polly?” she cried, getting into her lap.