"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.
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