"See." And she sat down on a big coil of rope near
by and smoothed out her brown gown. "Please, Grandpapa dear."
"He'll cry," said Mr. King, quickly. "Oh, no, Phronsie, it wouldn't do
to take him away from his mother. You see it would be dreadful to set
that child to roaring--very dreadful indeed." Yet he hung over her in
distress at the drooping little face.
"He won't cry." The mother's stolid face lighted up a moment. "And if
the little lady wants to hold him, he'll sit there."
"May I, Grandpapa?" cried Phronsie, her red lips curling into a happy
smile. "Oh, please say I may, Grandpapa dear," clasping her hands.
"The family seems unusually clean," observed Mr. King to himself. "And
the doctor says there's no sickness on board, and it's a very different
lot of steerage folks going this way from coming out, all of which I've
settled before coming down here," he reflected. "Well, Phronsie--yes--I
see no reason why you may not hold the baby if you want to." And before
the words were hardly out of his mouth, the chubby-faced woman had set
the fat baby in the middle of the brown gown smoothed out to receive
him. He clung to his pear with both hands and ate away with great
satisfaction, regardless of his new resting-place.
"Just come here!" Mrs. Griswold, in immaculately fitting garments,
evidently made up freshly for steamer use, beckoned with a hasty hand
to her husband.
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