look at her face.”
And to be sure, our Polly's face was a study to behold. All its old
sunniness was as nothing to the joy that now transfigured it.
“Oh!” she cried, coming out of her rapture a little, and springing over
to Mr. King with Phronsie still in her arms. “Oh, you are the dearest
and best Mr. King I ever saw! but how did you make mammy let her come?”
“Isn't he splendid!” cried Jasper in intense pride, swelling up. “Father
knew how to do it.”
But Polly's arms were around the old gentleman's neck, so she didn't
hear. “There, there,” he said soothingly, patting her brown, fuzzy head.
Something was going down the old gentleman's neck, that wet his collar,
and made him whisper very tenderly in her ear, “don't give way now,
Polly; Phronsie'll see you.”
“I know,” gasped Polly, controlling her sobs; “I won't--only--I can't
thank you!”
“Phronsie,” said Jasper quickly, “what do you suppose Prince said the
other day?”
“What?” asked Phronsie in intense interest slipping down out of Polly's
arms, and crowding up close to Jasper's side. “What did he, Jasper?”
“Oh-ho, how funny!” laughed Van, while little Dick burst right out,
“Japser!”
“Be still,” said Jappy warningly, while Phronsie stood surveying them
all with grave eyes.
“Well, I asked him, 'Don't you want to see Phronsie Pepper, Prince?' And
do you know, he just stood right upon his hind legs, Phronsie, and said:
'Bark! yes, Bark! Bark!'”
“Did he really, Jasper?” cried Phronsie, delighted beyond measure; and
clasping her hands in rapture, “all alone by himself?”
“Yes, all alone by himself,” asserted Jasper, vehemently, and winking
furiously to the others to stop their laughing; “he did now, truly,
Phronsie.”
“Then mustn't I go and see him now, Jasper? yes, pretty soon now?”
“So you must,” cried Jasper, enchanted at his success in amusing; “and
I'll go with you.”
“Oh, no,” cried Phronsie, shaking her yellow head. “Oh no, Jasper; I
must go by my very own self.”
“There Jap, you've caught it,” laughed Percy; while the others screamed
at the sight of Jasper's face.
“Oh Phronsie!” cried Polly, turning around at the last words; “how could
you!”
“Don't mind it, Polly,” whispered Jasper; “twasn't her fault.”
“Phronsie,” said Mrs. Whitney, smilingly, stooping over the child,
“would you like to see a little pussy I have for you?”
But the chubby face didn't look up brightly, as usual: and the next
moment, without a bit of warning, Phronsie sprang past them all, even
Polly, and flung herself into Mr. King's arms, in a perfect torrent of
sobs. “Oh! let's go back!” was all they heard!
“Dear me!” ejaculated the old gentleman, in the utmost amazement; “and
such a time as I've had to get her here too!” he added, staring around
on the astonished group, none of whom had a word to say.
But Polly stood like a statue! All Jasper's frantic efforts at comfort,
utterly failed. To think that Phronsie had left her for any one!--even
good Mr. King! The room seemed to buzz, and everything to turn upside
down--and just then, she heard another cry--“Oh, I want Polly, I do!”
With a bound, Polly was at Mr. King's side, with her face on his coat,
close to the little tear-stained one. The fat, little arms unclasped
their hold, and transferred themselves willingly to Polly's neck; and
Phronsie hugged up comfortingly to Polly's heart, who poured into her
ear all the loving words she had so longed to say.
Just then there was a great rush and a scuffling noise; and something
rushed up to Phronsie “Oh!” And then the next minute, she had her arms
around Prince's neck, too, who was jumping all over her and trying as
hard as he could, to express his overwhelming delight.
“She's the cunningest little thing I ever saw,” said Mrs. Whitney,
enthusiastically, afterward, aside to Mr. King. “Such lovely yellow
hair, and such exquisite brown eyes--the combination is very striking.
How did her mother ever let her go?” she asked impulsively, “I didn't
believe you could persuade her, father.”
“I didn't have any fears, if I worked it rightly,” said the old
gentleman complacently. “I wasn't coming without her, Marian, if it
could possibly be managed. The truth is, that Phronsie had been pining
for Polly to such an extent, that there was no other way but for her
to have Polly; and her mother was just on the point, although it almost
killed her, of sending for Polly--as if we should have let her go!” he
cried in high dudgeon; just as if he owned the whole of the Peppers, and
could dispose of them all to suit his fancy! “So you see, I was just in
time; in the very nick of time, in fact!”
“So her mother was willing?” asked his daughter, curiously. “Oh, she
couldn't help it,” cried Mr. King, beginning to walk up and down the
floor, and beaming as he recalled his successful strategy; “there wasn't
the smallest use in thinking of anything else. I told her 'twould just
stop Polly from ever being a musician if she broke off now--and so
'twould, you know yourself, Marian, for we should never get the child
here again, if we let her go now; and I talked--well, I had to talk
some; but, well--the upshot is I did get her, and I did bring her--and
here she is!” And the old gentleman was so delighted with his success,
that he had to burst out into a series of short, happy bits of laughter,
that occupied quite a space of time. At last he came out of them, and
wiped his face vigorously.
“And to think how fond the little girl is of you, father!” said Mrs.
Whitney, who hadn't yet gotten over her extreme surprise at the old
gentleman's complete subjection to the little Peppers: he, whom all
children had by instinct always approached so carefully, and whom every
one found it necessary to conciliate!
“Well, she's a nice child,” he said, “a very nice child; and,”
straightening himself up to his fullest height, and looking so very
handsome, that his daughter could not conceal her admiration, “I shall
always take care of Phronsie Pepper, Marian!”
“So I hope,” said Mrs. Whitney; “and father, I do believe they'll repay
you; for I do think there's good blood there; these children have a look
about them that shows them worthy to be trusted.”
“So they have: so they have,” assented Mr. King, and then the
conversation dropped.
PHRONSIE
Phronsie was toiling up and down the long, oak staircase the next
morning; slowly going from one step to the other, drawing each little
fat foot into place laboriously, but with a pleased expression on her
face that only gave some small idea of the rapture within. Up and down
she had been going for a long time, perfectly fascinated; seeming to
care for nothing else in the world but to work her way up to the top of
the long flight, only to turn and come down again. She had been going
on so for some time, till at last, Polly, who was afraid she would tire
herself all out, sat down at the foot and begged and implored the little
girl, who had nearly reached the top, to stop and rest.
“You'll be tired to death, Phronsie!” she said, looking up at the small
figure on its toilsome journey. “Why you must have gone up a million
times! Do sit down, pet; we're all going out riding, Phronsie, this
afternoon; and you can't go if you're all tired out.”
“I won't be tired, Polly,” said Phronsie, turning around and looking at
her, “do let me go just once more!”
“Well,” said Polly, who never could refuse her anything, “just once,
Phronsie, and then you must stop.”
So Phronsie kept on her way rejoicing, while Polly still sat on the
lowest stair, and drummed impatiently on the stair above her, waiting
for her to get through.
Jappy came through the hall and found them thus. “Halloa, Polly!” he
said, stopping suddenly; “what's the matter?”
“Oh, Phronsie's been going so,” said Polly, looking up at the little
figure above them, which had nearly reached the top in delight, “that I
can't stop her. She has really, Jappy, almost all the morning; you can't
think how crazy she is over it.”
“Is that so?” said Jasper, with a little laugh. “Hulloa, Phronsie, is
it nice?” and he tossed a kiss to the little girl, and then sat down by
Polly.
“Oh,” said Phronsie, turning to come down, “it's the beyew-tiflest place
I ever saw, Jasper! the very be-yew-tiflest!”
“I wish she could have her picture painted,” whispered Jasper,
enthusiastically. “Look at her now, Polly, quick!”
“Yes,” said Polly, “isn't she sweet!”
“Sweet!” said Jasper. “I should think she was!”
The sunlight through an oriel window fell on the childish face and
figure, glinting the yellow hair, and lighting up the radiant face, that
yet had a tender, loving glance for the two who waited for her below.
One little foot was poised, just in the act of stepping down to the next
lower stair, and the fat hand grasped the polished railing, expressive
of just enough caution to make it truly childish. In after years Jasper
never thought of Phronsie without bringing up this picture on that April
morning, when Polly and he sat at the foot of the stairs, and looked up
and saw it.
“Where's Jap?” called one of the boys; and then there was a clatter out
into the hall.
“What are you doing?” and Van came to a full stop of amazement and
stared at them.
“Resting,” said Jappy, concisely, “what do you want, Van?”
“I want you,” said Van, “we can't do anything without you, Jappy; you
know that.”
“Very well,” said Jasper, getting up. “Come on, Polly, we must go.”
“And Phronsie,” said Van, anxiously, looking up to Phronsie, who had
nearly reached them by this time, “we want her, too.”
“Of course,” said Polly, running up and meeting her to give her a hug;
“I don't go unless she does.”
“Where are we going, Polly?” asked Phronsie, looking back longingly to
her beloved stairs as she was borne off.
“To the greenhouse, chick!” said Jasper, “to help Turner; and it'll be
good fun, won't it, Polly?”
“What is a greenhouse?” asked the child, wonderingly. “All green,
Jasper?”
“Oh, dear me,” said Van, doubling up, “do you suppose she thinks it's
painted green?”
“It's green inside, Phronsie, dear,” said Jasper, kindly, “and that's
the best of all.”
When Phronsie was really let loose in the greenhouse she thought it
decidedly best of all; and she went into nearly as much of a rapture as
Polly did on her first visit to it.
In a few moments she was cooing and jumping among the plants, while old
Turner, staid and particular as he was, laughed to see her go.
“She's your sister, Miss Mary, ain't she?” at last he asked, as Phronsie
bent lovingly over a little pot of heath, and just touched one little
leaf carefully with her finger.
“Yes,” said Polly, “but she don't look like me.”
“She is like you,” said Turner, respectfully, “if she don't look like
you; and the flowers know it, too,” he added, “and they'll love to see
her coming, just as they do you.”
For Polly had won the old gardener's heart completely by her passionate
love for flowers, and nearly every morning a little nosegay, fresh and
beautiful, came up to the house for “Miss Mary.”
And now nobody liked to think of the time, or to look back to it, when
Phronsie hadn't been in the house. When the little feet went pattering
through halls and over stairs, it seemed to bring sunshine and happiness
into every one's heart just to hear the sounds. Polly and the boys in
the schoolroom would look up from their books and nod away brightly to
each other, and then fall to faster than ever on their lessons, to get
through the quicker to be with her again.
One thing Phronsie always insisted on, and kept to it
pertinaciously--and that was to go into the drawing-room with Polly
when she went to practice, and there, with one of her numerous family of
dolls, to sit down quietly in some corner and wait till she got through.
Day after day she did it, until Polly, who was worried to think how
tedious it must be for her, would look around and say, “Oh, childie, do
run out and play.”
“I want to stay,” Phronsie would beg in an injured tone; “please let me,
Polly.”
So Polly would jump and give her a kiss, and then, delighted to know
that she was there, would go at her practicing with twice the vigor and
enthusiasm.
But Phronsie's chief occupation, at least when she wasn't with Polly,
was the entertainment and amusement of Mr. King. And never was she very
long absent from his side, which so pleased the old gentleman that
he could scarcely contain himself, as with a gravity befitting the
importance of her office, she would follow him around in a happy
contented way, that took with him immensely. And now-a-days, no one ever
saw the old gentleman going out of a morning, when Jasper was busy with
his lessons, without Phronsie by his side, and many people turned to see
the portly figure with the handsome head bent to catch the prattle of
a little sunny-haired child, who trotted along, clasping his hand
confidingly. And nearly all of them stopped to gaze the second time
before they could convince themselves that it was really that queer,
stiff old Mr. King of whom they had heard so much.
And now the accumulation of dolls in the house became something
alarming, for Mr. King, observing Phronsie's devotion to her family,
thought there couldn't possibly be too many of them; so he scarcely
ever went out without bringing home one at least to add to them, until
Phronsie had such a remarkable collection as would have driven almost
any other child nearly crazy with delight. She, however, regarded them
something in the light of a grave responsibility, to be taken care of
tenderly, to be watched over carefully as to just the right kind of
bringing up; and to have small morals and manners taught in just the
right way.
Phronsie was playing in the corner of Mrs. Whitney's little boudoir,
engaged in sending out invitations for an elaborate tea-party to be
given by one of the dolls, when Polly rushed in with consternation in
her tones, and dismay written all over her face.
“What is it, dear?” asked Mrs. Whitney, looking up from her embroidery.
“Why,” said Polly, “how could I! I don't see--but I've forgotten to
write to mamsie to-day; it's Wednesday, you know, and there's Monsieur
coming.” And poor Polly looked out in despair to see the lively little
music teacher advancing towards the house at an alarming rate of speed.
“That is because you were helping Van so long last evening over his
lessons,” said Mrs. Whitney; “I am so sorry.”
“Oh, no,” cried Polly honestly, “I had plenty of time--but I forgot
'twas mamsie's day. What will she do!”
“You will have to let it go now till the afternoon, dear; there's no
other way; it can go in the early morning mail.”
“Oh, dear,” sighed Polly, “I suppose I must.” And she went down to meet
Monsieur with a very distressed little heart.
Phronsie laid down the note of invitation she was scribbling, and
stopped to think; and a moment or two after, at a summons from a caller,
Mrs. Whitney left the room.
“I know I ought to,” said Phronsie to herself and the dolls, “yes, I
know I had; mamsie will feel, oh! so bad, when she don't get Polly's
letter; and I know the way, I do, truly.”
She got up and went to the window, where she thought a minute; and then,
coming back, she took up her little stubby pencil, and bending over a
small bit of paper, she commenced to trace with laborious efforts and
much hard breathing, some very queer hieroglyphics that to her seemed to
be admirable, as at last she held them up with great satisfaction.
“Good-bye,” she said then, getting up and bowing to the dolls who sat
among the interrupted invitations, “I won't be gone but a little bit of
one minute,” and she went out determinedly and shut the door.
Nobody saw the little figure going down the carriage drive, so of course
nobody could stop her. When Phronsie got to the gateway she looked up
and down the street carefully, either way.
“Yes,” she said, at last, “it was down here, I'm very sure, I went with
grandpa,” and immediately turned down the wrong way, and went on and
on, grasping carefully her small, and by this time rather soiled bit of
paper.
At last she reached the business streets; and although she didn't come
to the Post Office, she comforted herself by the thought--“it must be
coming soon. I guess it's round this corner.”
She kept turning corner after corner, until, at last, a little anxious
feeling began to tug at her heart; and she began to think--“I wish I
could see Polly--” And now, she had all she could do to get out of
the way of the crowds of people who were pouring up and down the
thoroughfare. Everybody jostled against her, and gave her a push. “Oh
dear!” thought Phronsie, “there's such a many big people!” and then
there was no time for anything else but to stumble in and out, to
keep from being crushed completely beneath their feet. At last, an old
huckster woman, in passing along, knocked off her bonnet with the end
of her big basket, which flew around and struck Phronsie's head. Not
stopping to look into the piteous brown eyes, she strode on without a
word. Phronsie turned in perfect despair to go down a street that looked
as if there might be room enough for her in it. Thoroughly frightened,
she plunged over the crossing, to reach it!
“Look out!” cried a ringing voice. “Stop!”
“The little girl'll be killed!” said others with bated breath, as a
powerful pair of horses whose driver could not pull them up in time,
dashed along just in front of her! With one cry, Phronsie sprang between
their feet, and reached the opposite curbstone in safety!
The plunge brought her up against a knot of gentlemen who were standing
talking on the corner.
“What's this!” asked one, whose back being next to the street, hadn't
seen the commotion, as the small object dashed into their midst, and
fell up against him.
“Didn't you see that narrow escape?” asked a second, whose face had
paled in witnessing it. “This little girl was nearly killed a moment
ago--careless driving enough!” And he put out his hand to catch the
child.
“Bless me!” cried a third, whirling around suddenly, “Bless me! you
don't say so! why--” With a small cry, but gladsome and distinct in its
utterance, Phronsie gave one look--“Oh, grandpa!” was all she could say.
“Oh! where--” Mr. King couldn't possibly have uttered another word, for
then his breath gave out entirely, as he caught the small figure.
“I went to the Post Office,” said the child, clinging to him in delight,
her tangled hair waving over the little white face, into which a faint
pink color was quickly coming back. “Only it wouldn't come; and I walked
and walked--where is it, grandpa?” And Phronsie gazed up anxiously into
the old gentleman's face.
“She went to the Post Office!” turning around on the others fiercely,
as if they had contradicted him--“Why, my child, what were you going to
do?”
“Mamsie's letter,” said Phronsie, holding up for inspection the precious
bit, which by this time, was decidedly forlorn, “Polly couldn't write;
and Mamsie'd feel so bad not to get one--she would really” said the
child, shaking her head very soberly, “for Polly said so.”
“And you've been--oh! I can't think of it,” said Mr. King, tenderly
taking her up on his shoulder, “well, we must get home now, or I don't
know what Polly will do!” And without stopping to say a word to his
friends, he hailed a passing carriage, and putting Phronsie in, he
commanded the driver to get them as quickly as possible to their
destination.
In a few moments they were home. Mr. King pushed into the house with his
burden. “Don't anybody know,” he burst out, puffing up the stairs, and
scolding furiously at every step, “enough to take better care of this
child, than to have such goings on!”
“What is the matter, father?” asked Mrs. Whitney, coming up the stairs,
after him. “What has happened out of the way?”
“Out of the way!” roared the old gentleman, irascibly, “well, if you
want Phronsie racing off to the Post Office by herself, and nearly
getting killed, poor child! yes, Marian, I say nearly killed!” he
continued.
“What do you mean?” gasped Mrs. Whitney.
“Why, where have you been?” asked the old gentleman, who wouldn't let
Phronsie get down out of his arms, under any circumstances; so there she
lay, poking up her head like a little bird, and trying to say she wasn't
in the least hurt, “where's everybody been not to know she'd gone?” he
exclaimed, “where's Polly--and Jasper--and all of 'em?”
“Polly's taking her music lesson,” said Mrs. Whitney. “Oh, Phronsie
darling!” and she bent over the child in her father's arms, and nearly
smothered her with kisses.
“Twas a naughty horse,” said Phronsie, sitting up straight and looking
at her, “or I should have found the Post Office; and I lost off my
bonnet, too,” she added, for the first time realizing her loss, putting
her hand to her head; “a bad old woman knocked it off with a basket--and
now mamsie won't get her letter!” and she waved the bit, which she still
grasped firmly between her thumb and finger, sadly towards Mrs. Whitney.
“Oh, dear,” groaned that lady, “how could we talk before her! But who
would have thought it! Darling,” and she took the little girl from her
father's arms, who at last let her go, “don't think of your mamma's
letter; we'll tell her how it was,” and she sat down in the first chair
that she could reach; while Phronsie put her tumbled little head down on
the kind shoulder and gave a weary little sigh.
“It was so long,” she said, “and my shoes hurt,” and she thrust out the
dusty little boots, that spoke pathetically of the long and unaccustomed
tramp.
“Poor little lamb!” said Mr. King, getting down to unbutton them. “What
a shame!” he mumbled pulling off half of the buttons in his frantic
endeavors to get them off quickly.
But Phronsie never heard the last of his observations, for in a minute
she was fast asleep. The tangled hair fell off from the tired little
face; the breathing came peaceful and regular, and with her little hand
fast clasped in Mrs. Whitney's she slept on and on.
Polly came flying up-stairs, two or three at a time, and humming a scrap
of her last piece that she had just conquered.
“Phronsie,” she called, with a merry little laugh, “where--”
“Hush!” said Mr. King, warningly, and then just because he couldn't
explain there without waking Phronsie up, he took hold of Polly's two
shoulders and marched her into the next room, where he carefully closed
the door, and told her the whole thing, using his own discretion about
the very narrow escape she had passed through. He told enough, however,
for Polly to see what had been so near them; and she stood there so
quietly, alternately paling and flushing as he proceeded, till at last,
when he finished, Mr. King was frightened almost to death at the sight
of her face.
“Oh, goodness me, Polly!” he said, striding up to her, and then fumbling
around on the table to find a glass of water, “you are not going to
faint, are you? Phronsie's all well now, she isn't hurt in the least, I
assure you; I assure you--where is a glass of water! Marian ought to see
that there's some here--that stupid Jane!” and in utter bewilderment
he was fussing here and there, knocking down so many things in general,
that the noise soon brought Polly to, with a little gasp.
“Oh, don't mind me, dear Mr. King--I'm--all well.”
“So you are,” said the old gentleman, setting up a toilet bottle that he
had knocked over, “so you are; I didn't think you'd go and tumble over,
Polly, I really didn't,” and he beamed admiringly down on her.
And then Polly crept away to Mrs. Whitney's side where she threw herself
down on the floor, to watch the little sleeping figure. Her hand was
gathered up, into the kind one that held Phronsie's; and there they
watched and watched and waited.
“Oh, dear,” said Phronsie, suddenly, turning over with a little sigh,
and bobbing up her head to look at Polly; “I'm so hungry! I haven't had
anything to eat in ever an' ever so long, Polly!” and she gazed at her
with a very injured countenance.
“So you must be,” said Mrs. Whitney, kissing the flushed little face.
“Polly must ring the bell for Jane to bring this little bird some
crumbs.
“Can I have a great many?” asked Phronsie, lifting her eyes, with the
dewy look of sleep still lingering in them, “as many as two birdies?”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Whitney, laughing; “I think as many as three
little birdies could eat, Phronsie.”