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for the thin little face with the sharp, black eyes was withdrawn, and the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.
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