"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.
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