"You must remember she
has had her old 'Gran' as she calls her, and after that I think she can
bear Jerusha."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Henderson, "I forgot. Then I say, husband, we will
take this child. I should really love to put the brightness into her life.
And please let her come soon." A pretty glow rushed up to her cheek, and
the parson's wife actually laughed at the prospect.
VII
THE DISAPPOINTMENT
"Will it stop, Grandpapa?" Phronsie, kneeling on a chair, her face pressed
close to the window pane, turned to old Mr. King, looking over her
shoulder.
"I'm afraid not, dear," he answered.
"Doesn't God know we want to help the poor children?" she asked suddenly, a
surprised look coming into her eyes.
"Yes, yes, dear; of course he knows, child."
"Then why does he let it rain?" cried Phronsie, in a hurt voice.
"Oh, because, Pet, we must have rain, else the flowers wouldn't grow, you
know."
"They're all grown," said Phronsie, trying to peer out into the thick
twilight between the great splashes of rain running down the window over
toward the garden, "and now we can't have our party to-morrow, Grandpapa,"
she added sorrowfully.
"No, it would be quite too wet, after this downpour, even if it cleared
to-night," said the old gentleman decidedly. "Well, Phronsie, child, we
must just accept the matter philosophically.
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