But never mind, child"--as she saw a sorry little
droop to Phronsie's mouth--"I'll find another somewhere, and it will be
nice, even if it isn't pink."
"It will be nice," echoed Phronsie confidently, as long as Polly said so,
and she clasped her hands.
"And come on, Pet, we'll go and find the ribbon and make the bag now, so as
to be all ready." Polly flew up from her stair. "Pick up your doll, and
give me your hand. Here we are!"--as they ran up to the top.
"I very much wish you wouldn't call her my doll," panted Phronsie, as they
reached the last step; "she's my child, Polly."
"I know; I won't forget," laughed Polly. "Now, says I, Phronsie, for my
piece-box!"
The invitation of Miss Mary Taylor to all the girls who were getting up the
fair for the poor children's week, plunged them into such a state of
excitement that those who had been lagging over their fancy work now
spirited up on it, or ran down-street to get more materials and begin anew.
One of these was Clem Forsythe.
"Oh, dear me!" cried Polly, looking up from the floor of her room, where
Phronsie and she had thrown themselves, the piece-box of ribbons between
them, "here comes Clem up the drive; now I 'most know she wants me to help
her on that sofa-pillow," and she twitched a square of yellow silk into a
tighter tangle. "How in the world did that spool get in here?" she
exclaimed, in vexation.
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