"Oh! where"--Mr. King couldn't possibly have uttered another word, for then his breath gave out entirely, as he caught the small figure.
"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 Officel' 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 Idon'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 objurgations, 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.
