Part 67

“I went to the Post Office,” said the child, clinging to him in delight, her tangled hair waving over the little white face, into which a faint pink color was quickly coming back. “Only it wouldn't come; and I walked and walked--where is it, grandpa?” And Phronsie gazed up anxiously into the old gentleman's face.

“She went to the Post Office!” turning around on the others fiercely, as if they had contradicted him--“Why, my child, what were you going to do?”

“Mamsie's letter,” said Phronsie, holding up for inspection the precious bit, which by this time, was decidedly forlorn, “Polly couldn't write; and Mamsie'd feel so bad not to get one--she would really” said the child, shaking her head very soberly, “for Polly said so.”

“And you've been--oh! I can't think of it,” said Mr. King, tenderly taking her up on his shoulder, “well, we must get home now, or I don't know what Polly will do!” And without stopping to say a word to his friends, he hailed a passing carriage, and putting Phronsie in, he commanded the driver to get them as quickly as possible to their destination.

In a few moments they were home. Mr. King pushed into the house with his burden. “Don't anybody know,” he burst out, puffing up the stairs, and scolding furiously at every step, “enough to take better care of this child, than to have such goings on!”

“What is the matter, father?” asked Mrs. Whitney, coming up the stairs, after him. “What has happened out of the way?”

“Out of the way!” roared the old gentleman, irascibly, “well, if you want Phronsie racing off to the Post Office by herself, and nearly getting killed, poor child! yes, Marian, I say nearly killed!” he continued.

“What do you mean?” gasped Mrs. Whitney.

“Why, where have you been?” asked the old gentleman, who wouldn't let Phronsie get down out of his arms, under any circumstances; so there she lay, poking up her head like a little bird, and trying to say she wasn't in the least hurt, “where's everybody been not to know she'd gone?” he exclaimed, “where's Polly--and Jasper--and all of 'em?”

“Polly's taking her music lesson,” said Mrs. Whitney. “Oh, Phronsie darling!” and she bent over the child in her father's arms, and nearly smothered her with kisses.

“Twas a naughty horse,” said Phronsie, sitting up straight and looking at her, “or I should have found the Post Office; and I lost off my bonnet, too,” she added, for the first time realizing her loss, putting her hand to her head; “a bad old woman knocked it off with a basket--and now mamsie won't get her letter!” and she waved the bit, which she still grasped firmly between her thumb and finger, sadly towards Mrs. Whitney.

“Oh, dear,” groaned that lady, “how could we talk before her! But who would have thought it! Darling,” and she took the little girl from her father's arms, who at last let her go, “don't think of your mamma's letter; we'll tell her how it was,” and she sat down in the first chair that she could reach; while Phronsie put her tumbled little head down on the kind shoulder and gave a weary little sigh.

“It was so long,” she said, “and my shoes hurt,” and she thrust out the dusty little boots, that spoke pathetically of the long and unaccustomed tramp.

“Poor little lamb!” said Mr. King, getting down to unbutton them. “What a shame!” he mumbled pulling off half of the buttons in his frantic endeavors to get them off quickly.

But Phronsie never heard the last of his observations, for in a minute she was fast asleep. The tangled hair fell off from the tired little face; the breathing came peaceful and regular, and with her little hand fast clasped in Mrs. Whitney's she slept on and on.

Polly came flying up-stairs, two or three at a time, and humming a scrap of her last piece that she had just conquered.

“Phronsie,” she called, with a merry little laugh, “where--”

“Hush!” said Mr. King, warningly, and then just because he couldn't explain there without waking Phronsie up, he took hold of Polly's two shoulders and marched her into the next room, where he carefully closed the door, and told her the whole thing, using his own discretion about the very narrow escape she had passed through. He told enough, however, for Polly to see what had been so near them; and she stood there so quietly, alternately paling and flushing as he proceeded, till at last, when he finished, Mr. King was frightened almost to death at the sight of her face.

“Oh, goodness me, Polly!” he said, striding up to her, and then fumbling around on the table to find a glass of water, “you are not going to faint, are you? Phronsie's all well now, she isn't hurt in the least, I assure you; I assure you--where is a glass of water! Marian ought to see that there's some here--that stupid Jane!” and in utter bewilderment he was fussing here and there, knocking down so many things in general, that the noise soon brought Polly to, with a little gasp.

“Oh, don't mind me, dear Mr. King--I'm--all well.”

“So you are,” said the old gentleman, setting up a toilet bottle that he had knocked over, “so you are; I didn't think you'd go and tumble over, Polly, I really didn't,” and he beamed admiringly down on her.

And then Polly crept away to Mrs. Whitney's side where she threw herself down on the floor, to watch the little sleeping figure. Her hand was gathered up, into the kind one that held Phronsie's; and there they watched and watched and waited.

“Oh, dear,” said Phronsie, suddenly, turning over with a little sigh, and bobbing up her head to look at Polly; “I'm so hungry! I haven't had anything to eat in ever an' ever so long, Polly!” and she gazed at her with a very injured countenance.

“So you must be,” said Mrs. Whitney, kissing the flushed little face. “Polly must ring the bell for Jane to bring this little bird some crumbs.

“Can I have a great many?” asked Phronsie, lifting her eyes, with the dewy look of sleep still lingering in them, “as many as two birdies?”

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Whitney, laughing; “I think as many as three little birdies could eat, Phronsie.”

“Oh,” said Phronsie, and leaned back satisfied, while Polly gave the order, which was presently followed by Jane with a well-filled tray.

“Now,” said Jappy, when he heard the account of the adventure, “I say that letter ought to go to your mother, Polly.”