King
whispered, smoothing her yellow hair with a trembling hand.
"I will--I will," she cried gleefully, hopping out of his lap.
"Oh, don't send her away." All the defiance dropped out of Rag's face and
manner, and she whimpered miserably. "She's th' only nice one there is
here. Don't let her go."
"She's coming right back, little girl," said old Mr. King kindly. He even
smiled. But the girl had hung her head, so she didn't see it, and she
blubbered on.
"I'll bring Mamsie to see my poor little girl," Phronsie kept saying to
herself over and over, as she scuttled off, and in a very few minutes
Mother Fisher was out on the veranda in obedience to old Mr. King's
summons.
"It's beyond me"--the old gentleman waved his hand at Rag--"you'll have to
unravel it, Mrs. Fisher. Here, Phronsie, get up in my lap." He strained her
so tightly to him, as Phronsie hopped into her accustomed nest, that she
looked up.
"Oh, Grandpapa!" she exclaimed.
"Did I hurt you, child?" he said, in a broken voice.
"A little, Grandpapa dear," she said.
"Well--oh, Lord bless me! I can't talk, child," he finished brokenly.
"Are you sick, Grandpapa?" she asked, sitting straight to look at him
anxiously. "Does your head ache? I'll smooth it for you," and she began to
pat his white hair.
"Oh, no, child, my head doesn't ache. There, sit still, dear, that's all I
want.
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