"
"Oh, my child! Grandpapa wouldn't hurt a hair of your blessed head. Oh,
that dreadful Joanna!"
"I like my own little girl very much indeed," said Phronsie, dismissing her
own hurts to go on with her narrative. "Yes, I do, Grandpapa," she added
decidedly, "but I don't like the place she lived in. And, Grandpapa"--here
she drew a long breath--"there was an old lady came in, and I don't think
she was a nice old lady, I don't, Grandpapa." Phronsie crept up a bit
closer, if that were possible.
"What did she do, child?" He held his breath for the answer.
"She took hold of my arm," said Phronsie, a shiver seizing her at the
remembrance, and she burrowed deeper within the protecting arms, "and she
felt of my beads that Auntie gave me."
"What else?" He scarcely seemed to ask the question.
"And my own little girl pulled me away, and she carried me home, most of
the way, and I like her." Phronsie brought herself up with an emphatic
little nod, and smiled.
"That was good."
Phronsie smiled radiantly. "Wasn't it, Grandpapa!" she cried, in delight.
"And I want her to stay. May she? Oh, may she? She's my own little girl."
"We'll see about it," said old Mr. King, with a thought of the long welts
on the thin arms, and the furious old woman.
"What's that noise?" asked Phronsie, suddenly lifting her head.
"Oh, a bird, maybe," said the old gentleman, carelessly looking up to the
vines swinging around the veranda.
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