"Nor you, either," retorted Clem. "So come on, let's dance together," and
away they went, too.
And at last, when it was time to go home, Mr. Hamilton Dyce, who had
absented himself after that first dance, drove up with a flourish to the
door in his runabout.
"I've come for Phronsie Pepper," he said.
So Phronsie, half asleep, had her hat tied on, and kissed Miss Mary, and
Polly lifted her up and guided her foot over the step, Mr. Dyce, the reins
in one hand, helping her with the other.
"Good-bye," he called, his eyes on no one but Miss Mary.
"Oh, my bag, my bag!" cried Phronsie, in a wail of distress, and leaning
forward suddenly.
"Take care, child; where are you going?" Mr. Dyce put forth a restraining
hand and held her closely.
"My bag!" Phronsie looked back, the tears racing over her round cheeks.
"I'll bring it home," called Polly from the steps, where she was back among
the knot of girls.
"My bag!" Phronsie continued to wail.
"Dear me!" cried Polly, "she must have it now." So she ran into the house
to get it, where Phronsie had left it on her little cricket, Mr. Dyce
meanwhile saying, "There, there, child, you shall have it," while he turned
the little mare sharply about.
"We can't ever find the needle," said Alexia, rushing after Polly into the
library, and getting down on her knees to prowl over the floor. "Misery
me!"--with a jump--"I've found it already, sticking straight into me!"
So Phronsie's "cushion-pin" was thrust into the gay little
pink-and-green-striped workbag, and Polly danced out with it and
handed it up to her. Mr. Dyce cracked the whip, and this time they
were fairly off.
V
"SHE'S MY LITTLE GIRL"
"Oh, I do wish, Polly," cried Phronsie, as they ran along the hollyhock
path, "that my poor little girl could go to the country. Can't she, Polly?"
she asked anxiously.
"Oh, yes, of course," assented Polly, her mind on the garden party, now
only three days ahead. "Phronsie, how perfectly elegant those roses are
going to be!"--pointing off to the old-fashioned varieties blooming
riotously.
"Oh, Polly!" Phronsie stood still a moment in silent bliss, then hopped up
and down the narrow path. "I'm so glad she can go! Oh, Polly, I'm so
_very_ glad!"
"Who?" cried Polly, in perplexity.
"My little girl, my poor little girl," said Phronsie, hopping away.
"Oh, of course." Polly gave a little laugh. "Well, there are lots of poor
little girls who will go, Phronsie," she said, in great satisfaction,
"because, you know, we're going to make a great deal of money, I expect.
Why, Grandpapa has told Thomas to buy ever so many flowers. Just think,
child, and the oceans we have here!" She waved her hands over to take in
not only the old-fashioned garden where they stood, but the smart
flower-beds beyond, the pride and joy of the gardeners. "Oh, yes, there
will be ever so many children who will be happy in the country in the
summer."
"And my poor little girl," persisted Phronsie gleefully, "she will be
happy, Polly. Oh, let's go down to the big gate--p'raps she's there
now--and tell her. Please, Polly." She seized Polly's hand in great
excitement.
Polly sank to her knees in delight over a little bed of daisies.
"I do think these are the very sweetest things, Phronsie Pepper," she said.
"See the cunning baby ones coming out."
"Please, Polly," begged Phronsie, clinging to her hand.
"Why, Phronsie!" Polly looked up in amazement. Not to pay attention to the
baby daisies was certainly astonishing, when Phronsie was always so rapt
over the new flowers. "What is it you want, child?"
"Please come down to the big gate, Polly," pleaded Phronsie, her lip
quivering, for Polly was not usually so hard to understand.
"Yes, I will," said Polly, reluctantly tearing herself away from the
fascinating daisies. "Now then, we'll go there right away; one, two, three,
and away!"
"I guess--she'll--be--there," panted Phronsie, but she was running so fast
to keep up with Polly's longer steps that her words died away on the air;
and Polly, who dearly loved a race over the grass, was letting her mind
travel to the delights of the garden party, and what it was going to
accomplish, so she didn't hear.
At last there was the big gate.
"Dear me!" cried Polly, with a gay little laugh, "what a fine race! No
wonder you wanted me to try it with you! Why, Pet, have I run too fast?"
She looked with remorse at the flushed little face.
"No," gasped Phronsie, "but oh, Polly, will you sit down on the grass?"
"To be sure I will," said Polly very remorsefully, "you're all tired out.
There, let's come over here," and she led her over to the very tree under
which Phronsie had fallen asleep. "Here's where I found you the other day,
Phronsie, when you were so tired. Heigh-ho!" And Polly threw herself down
on the grass, and drew Phronsie into her lap.
"P'raps she'll come," said Phronsie, and the sorrowful look began to
disappear as she cuddled in Polly's arms. "Don't you believe she will,
Polly?" She put her face close to Polly's to peer anxiously into her brown
eyes.
"Who, child?" asked Polly.
"The poor little girl--my poor little girl," exclaimed Phronsie.
"Oh, there isn't any little girl, at least any particular one," cried
Polly. "We're going to send ever so many little girls into the country,
Phronsie, but not any special one."
"Oh, yes, there is," contradicted Phronsie, her lip quivering again, and,
despite all her efforts, the big tears began to course down her cheeks.
"She's my little girl, and I like her. Please let her go, Polly. And maybe
she'll come soon, if we only wait for her." It was a long speech, and by
the time it was all out, Phronsie had laid her head in Polly's neck, and
was sobbing as if her heart would break.
It was for this reason that Polly did not happen to look up across the
grass to the big gate, so of course she couldn't be expected to see what
took place there. And it was not until Phronsie had been persuaded to sit
straight and have her tears wiped away, because Mamsie wouldn't like to
have her cry, that any one guessed it at all. And in one instant Polly's
lap was deserted, Phronsie was flying over the greensward, crying out:
"There she is--my poor little girl!"
It took but a moment for Polly's swift feet to follow, but none too soon,
for the thin little face with the sharp, black eyes was withdrawn, and the
flapping old shoes were beating a hasty retreat. But Polly was after her,
and her hand was on her arm, and the first thing the stranger knew she was
drawn within the big gateway, Phronsie circling around her with great
satisfaction.
"She _did_ come, Polly, she did."
"Lemme be. I warn't doin' nothin' but peekin'," said the girl, trying to
wriggle away from Polly's grasp. But Polly held on.
"Don't be frightened; there isn't any one going to hurt you. What's your
name, little girl?"
"She's my little girl," insisted Phronsie, trying to get hold of the thin
little hand, which was less grimy than usual.
"What's your name?" asked Polly again.
"Rag," said the girl, in a burst.
"Rag? Oh, dear me!" said Polly.
"Lemme go. I hain't done no harm. Gran'll be wantin' me."
"Who?"
"Gran." The girl, at that, tried to fold up her arms in the remains of her
sleeves. But Polly saw the long, red welts that were not pleasant to look
at. She gave a little shiver, but held on firmly to the tattered ends.
"Oh, make her stay," cried Phronsie; "I want her to play with me. I'll let
you take Clorinda again, and she shall be your child," she stood up on
tiptoe to say.
"Can't," said the girl, making a desperate effort to twitch away. "Lemme
go."
"No, you cannot go until you have told me who you are, and how you know my
little sister."
Rag looked into the brown eyes of the little girl not so much older, drew a
long breath, then burst out, "She's visited me to my house," and, putting
on the most defiant expression possible, stood quite still.
_"Visited you at your house!"_ echoed Polly. She nearly dropped the
ragged sleeve.
"Yes, an' I give her a five-o'clock tea," said Rag proudly. "Any harm in
that? An' I brung her home again, and she ain't hurt a bit. You lemme go,
you girl, you!"
"You must come and see Grandpapa," said Polly firmly, a little white line
around her mouth.
"I ain't a-goin'." Rag showed instant fight against any such idea.
"Then, if you don't," said Polly, gripping her arm, "I shall call the
gardeners, and they will bring you up to the house."
"Oh, do come," cried Phronsie, who thought everything most delightfully
conspiring to make her friend remain. "Dear Grandpapa will love you, little
girl; come with Polly and me."
She took hold of her other arm, and Rag, seeing no way out of it and wholly
bewildered, suffered herself to be led up to the grand mansion.
"Bless me; what have we here?" Old Mr. King, enjoying a morning
constitutional on the big veranda, looked over his spectacles, which he had
forgotten to remove as he had just thrown down the morning paper in a
chair, and stared in amazement at the three children coming over the lawn.
"My poor little girl, Grandpapa," announced Phronsie, releasing the arm she
clung to, and tumbling up over the steps, "and please make her stay, and
I'm going to let her take Clorinda," and she plunged breathlessly into the
old gentleman's arms.
"Hoity-toity, child!" exclaimed old Mr. King, holding her closely. "Well,
what have we here?"--as Polly led Rag up on to the veranda.
"I don't know, Grandpapa," said Polly, still keeping tight hold of the arm
in its tattered sleeve.
"It seems to be a little girl," said Grandpapa, peering at the stranger.
"Yes, it's my little girl," said Phronsie happily, "and she's come to play
with me, Grandpapa."
"Oh, my goodness me!" exclaimed Mr. King, stepping backward and drawing
Phronsie closer.
"I ain't come. _She_ brung me," said the girl, pointing with a thumb
over at Polly; "tain't my fault; she made me."
"Polly, what is all this?" asked the old gentleman perplexedly, staring at
one and the other.
"I don't know, Grandpapa," said Polly, the little white line still around
her mouth; "she says Phronsie has been at her house, and----"
"_Phronsie been at her house!_" thundered the old gentleman.
"Yes, she has. An' I give her a five-o'clock tea," cried Rag, in a burst,
who, thinking that she was probably now going to be killed, began to take
pleasure in telling all she knew. "Swell folks does; I seen 'em plenty of
times on th' avenoo, an' here, too"--she nodded toward the long French
windows--"an' I got as good a right, I guess. An' she let me take her doll,
an' I like her. An' we had an orful good time till Gran came in, an' then
we lit out, an' I brung her home. Now what you goin' to do about it?" She
folded her thin arms as well as she could, for Polly was still holding to
one, and glared defiantly out of her sharp, black eyes.
"Oh, Grandpapa, her arms!" Polly was pointing to the long, red welts.
Rag turned as if shot, and twitched the ragged sleeves down, tucking the
free arm behind her back. "Lemme go, you girl: you hain't no right to see
'em, it's none o' your business," she screamed at Polly. Old Mr. King had
sunk into a chair. Phronsie, in his lap, was so busy in putting her face
close to his, and telling him that it was really her own poor little girl,
that she had failed to see the arms and the disclosures they had made.
"Go and get your mother," he said, after a breathing space. "Oh, stay! I
can't hold her"--with a gesture of disgust.
"An' you ain't a-goin' to tetch me," declared Rag proudly; "no, sir-ee!"
"Well, Phronsie, you jump down and go and get your mother," Mr. King
whispered, smoothing her yellow hair with a trembling hand.
"I will--I will," she cried gleefully, hopping out of his lap.
"Oh, don't send her away." All the defiance dropped out of Rag's face and
manner, and she whimpered miserably. "She's th' only nice one there is
here. Don't let her go."
"She's coming right back, little girl," said old Mr. King kindly. He even
smiled. But the girl had hung her head, so she didn't see it, and she
blubbered on.
"I'll bring Mamsie to see my poor little girl," Phronsie kept saying to
herself over and over, as she scuttled off, and in a very few minutes
Mother Fisher was out on the veranda in obedience to old Mr. King's
summons.
"It's beyond me"--the old gentleman waved his hand at Rag--"you'll have to
unravel it, Mrs. Fisher. Here, Phronsie, get up in my lap." He strained her
so tightly to him, as Phronsie hopped into her accustomed nest, that she
looked up.
"Oh, Grandpapa!" she exclaimed.
"Did I hurt you, child?" he said, in a broken voice.
"A little, Grandpapa dear," she said.
"Well--oh, Lord bless me! I can't talk, child," he finished brokenly.
"Are you sick, Grandpapa?" she asked, sitting straight to look at him
anxiously. "Does your head ache? I'll smooth it for you," and she began to
pat his white hair.
"Oh, no, child, my head doesn't ache. There, sit still, dear, that's all I
want." So Phronsie cuddled up within his arms, feeling quite sure that now
Mamsie had her own poor little girl, everything would be all right.
"She's my nice little girl, and I like her," Phronsie was saying. "Yes, I
do, very much indeed, Grandpapa."
"You do?"
"Yes, and I want her to stay here, Grandpapa. Please, may she?"
"Oh, dear!"
"_Please_, Grandpapa dear." Phronsie put up one hand and tucked it
softly under his chin. He seized it and covered it with kisses.
"Oh, my lamb--that wicked, careless Joanna!"
"What's the matter, Grandpapa?" Phronsie brought up her head to look at him
with troubled eyes.
"Nothing--nothing, child; there, cuddle down again. Your mother is talking
to the little girl, and she will fix up things. Oh, bless me!"
"Mamsie will fix up things, won't she, Grandpapa?" cooed Phronsie,
wriggling her toes happily.
"Yes, dear."
"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, after a moment's silence only broken by a soft
murmur of voices, for Mother Fisher had drawn her group to the further
corner, "I don't think my little girl has got a very nice place to live
in."
"Oh, Phronsie, child!" He strained her convulsively to his breast. "There,
there, lamb, Oh, I didn't mean to! Grandpapa won't hurt his little pet for
the world."
"You didn't hurt me this time," said Phronsie, "as much as you did before,
Grandpapa dear."
"Oh, my child! Grandpapa wouldn't hurt a hair of your blessed head. Oh,
that dreadful Joanna!"
"I like my own little girl very much indeed," said Phronsie, dismissing her
own hurts to go on with her narrative. "Yes, I do, Grandpapa," she added
decidedly, "but I don't like the place she lived in. And, Grandpapa"--here
she drew a long breath--"there was an old lady came in, and I don't think
she was a nice old lady, I don't, Grandpapa." Phronsie crept up a bit
closer, if that were possible.
"What did she do, child?" He held his breath for the answer.
"She took hold of my arm," said Phronsie, a shiver seizing her at the
remembrance, and she burrowed deeper within the protecting arms, "and she
felt of my beads that Auntie gave me."
"What else?" He scarcely seemed to ask the question.
"And my own little girl pulled me away, and she carried me home, most of
the way, and I like her." Phronsie brought herself up with an emphatic
little nod, and smiled.
"That was good."
Phronsie smiled radiantly. "Wasn't it, Grandpapa!" she cried, in delight.
"And I want her to stay. May she? Oh, may she? She's my own little girl."
"We'll see about it," said old Mr. King, with a thought of the long welts
on the thin arms, and the furious old woman.
"What's that noise?" asked Phronsie, suddenly lifting her head.
"Oh, a bird, maybe," said the old gentleman, carelessly looking up to the
vines swinging around the veranda. "There, lay your head down again,
child."
"It didn't sound like a bird, Grandpapa. I thought some one was crying."
Yet she put her yellow head obediently down, and didn't lift it again till
Mother Fisher stood by the side of old Mr. King's chair.
"Well, is the conference over?" he asked.
"Yes," said Mrs. Pepper. Her lips had a little white line around them, too,
like that on Polly's mouth, and the black eyes had a strange expression.
Phronsie popped her head up like a bird out of its nest, and piped out:
"Oh, please, Mamsie, may she stay?"
"Yes," said Mother Fisher, "she is going to stay, Phronsie."
"Oh, my goodness me!" breathed old Mr. King.
Phronsie slipped out of his arms and began to dance, clapping her hands.
"I'm going to play with her now, but I must get Clorinda first," she cried
excitedly.
"See here, Phronsie," Mother Fisher called, as she was flying off, "you
must not play with the little girl yet."
Phronsie stood quite still.
"Come here to mother." Mrs. Fisher opened her arms and Phronsie scuttled
into them like a little rabbit. Mrs. Pepper held her so closely that
Phronsie looked up quickly.
"Why, you are hurting me like Grandpapa, Mamsie."
"Oh, my child!" Mother Fisher seemed to forget herself, as she bowed her
head over Phronsie's yellow hair.
"What is the matter, Mamsie?" asked Phronsie. "I wish I could see your
face," and she wriggled violently.
"Nothing is the matter now," said Mamsie. "There, child, now I'll tell you.
If the little girl stays here, she----"
"She's my little girl," interrupted Phronsie.
"Well, if she stays here, she must be washed and have on clean clothes. So
Sarah has taken her, and is going to fix her all up nice."
"Oh--oh!" cried Phronsie, in a transport, "and can she have some of Polly's
clothes, Mamsie?"
"Yes, I guess so. Anyway, we will fix her up all nicely."
"And may she stay here for ever and ever," cried Phronsie, "and not go back
to that un-nice old lady? Please, Mamsie, don't let her go back," she
pleaded.
Over the yellow hair the old gentleman had found out and communicated
several things back and forth. One was, "I don't think she is the child's
own grandmother." "Mr. Cabot can investigate," and so on.
"What are you whispering about?" at last asked Phronsie.
"Nothing that you should know, dear. Now I'm going to put you in
Grandpapa's lap, Phronsie. You must be a good girl," and Mother Pepper went
off.
"You must take care of me, Phronsie," said the old gentleman, "for I really
think I need it now. And I guess my hair does want to be smoothed, after
all."
"I'll stay and take care of you, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, delighted that
her services were really to be called for, and with her heart at rest about
her own poor little girl.
VI
GRANDMA BASCOM
"Deary me!" Grandma Bascom stopped shooing out the hens from her kitchen
doorway, and leaned on the broom-handle. "If here don't come Mis'
Henderson! Now I shall hear about that blessed little creeter and all the
rest of them childern."
"Good-afternoon." The parson's wife went swiftly up the flag-bordered path
between the lilac bushes. "It's a beautiful day, Mrs. Bascom."
"Hey?" Grandma's shaking hand went up to her cap-border, so Mrs. Henderson
had to say it over, that it was a beautiful day, as loud as she could.
"You've come to-day?" said Grandma.
"Yes, I see you have, an' I'm obleeged to you, I'm sure, for it's mighty
lonesome since that blessed little creeter, an' all the rest of them
childern went away. Come in an' set down," and she led the way into the
kitchen.
Meanwhile, the hens, seeing nothing to prevent it, had employed the time in
slipping in under Grandma's short gown, and were busily scratching around
for any stray bits.
"Thank you." The parson's wife nimbly found a chair, while Grandma bustled
into the bedroom.
"Excuse me a minute, Mis' Henderson," she called; "I'm goin' to slip on
t'other cap."
"Oh, don't take the trouble," said Mrs. Henderson's pleasant voice. But she
might as well have said nothing, for Grandma didn't hear a word.
"'Tain't proper to see your minister's wife in your mornin' cap, nor your
petticoat neither for that matter," said Grandma to herself, looking down
at her short gown. So she concluded to put on her Sunday-go-to-meeting
gown, as she called her best dress. This took her so long, because she
hooked it up wrong three times, that Mrs. Henderson appeared in the doorway
before the operation of dressing-up could be said to be finished.
"I'm very sorry," she began.
"'Tain't a bit o' trouble," said Grandma cheerfully, pulling at the second
hook, which she had been trying for some time to get into the first eye;
"you set down, Mis' Henderson, an' I'll be out pretty soon."
"I must go very soon." The parson's wife came quite close to say this, up
under the frill of the best cap, which stood out very stiffly, as Grandma
always kept it in a covered box on top of her high bureau.
"Hey?"
"I must go home soon. I have so many things to see to this afternoon."
It was a fatally long speech, for Grandma only attended to the last part.
"It's aft-noon? I know it. I'm comin' 's soon 's I can git this hooked
up"--with another pull at the mismated hooks and eyes. Seeing this, in
despair the parson's wife took the matter of hooking up into her own hands,
and before long the Sunday-go-to-meeting gown could be said to be fairly
on.
"Now that's something like," observed Grandma, in great satisfaction. "I
hain't been hooked up by any one since Mis' Pepper went away. Deary me, how
I should set by a sight o' her, an' th' blessed little creeter--there ain't
none other like that child."
Mrs. Henderson nodded, being sparing of words.
"I've some letters from them," she said loudly, "and if you come out to the
kitchen, I will stay and read them to you."
"What did you say was the matter in the kitchen?" demanded Grandma, in
alarm. "Oh, them dirty hens, I s'pose, has got in again."
"I have letters from the Pepper children, and they ask me to come over here
and read them to you," shouted Mrs. Henderson. "Dear me!"--to
herself--"what shall I do? I'm all tired out already, and three letters to
read--she won't hear a word."
But Grandma, having caught the word "letters," knew quite well what was in
store, so, picking up her best gown by its side breadths, she waddled out
and seated herself with great dignity in a big chair by the kitchen window.
It was next to the little stand in whose drawer she used to let Joel Pepper
look for peppermints.
When the Pepper children shut up the little brown house to go to Mr.
King's, Grandma moved the small mahogany stand from its place next to the
head of her bed out into the kitchen. She kept her big Bible on it, and her
knitting work, where she could "have 'em handy." And it made her feel less
lonesome to look up from her work to see it standing there.
"Seem's though that boy was a-comin' in every minute," she said. "My land
o' Goshen, don't I wish he was!" for Grandma always had a soft spot in her
heart for Joel.
Now she smoothed down her front breadth, and folded her hands in a company
way. The parson's wife drew up a kitchen chair close to her side and
unfolded the first letter.
"Who writ that?" asked Grandma eagerly.
"That's from Polly," said Mrs. Henderson.
"Bless her heart!" cried Grandma. "Well, what does she say?"
"Ma"--a light-haired, serious boy appeared in the doorway--"Pa wants you,"
he announced.
"Oh, Peletiah!" exclaimed the parson's wife, in consternation, at his
unlooked-for appearance, and, "Oh, Grandma!" in the same breath, "I'm so
sorry I must go."
"So sorry? What's ben a happenin' that Polly's sorry?" said Grandma,
supposing that was in the letter. "Now I know that blessed little creeter
has got hurt, an' they wouldn't let me know afore the rest."
"It isn't in the letter," declared Mrs. Henderson, in a loud, hasty tone,
hurrying out of her chair. "Peletiah, what does your father want, do you
know?"
"I don't know exactly," said Peletiah deliberately, "only Aunt Jerusha
tumbled down the cellar stairs; maybe that's it."
"Oh, dear me! dear me!" cried the parson's wife, in a great fright.
"Peletiah, here are the letters from the Pepper children"--thrusting them
into his hand--"do you stay and read them to Grandma. And be sure to tell
her why I went home," and she actually ran out of the kitchen, and down the
lilac-bordered path.
Peletiah, left alone with the letters, turned them over and over in his
hands, as he stood quite still in the middle of the kitchen floor. He never
thought of disobeying, and presently he pulled up another chair, just in
front of Grandma, and sat slowly down.