"Now, Phronsie, you are not to cry any more," he said, with a pang at
the sight. "You won't, dear; promise me that."
So Phronsie promised; and he held her hands, and, clearing his throat,
he began, "Well, now I suppose they felt pretty badly, back there in
the room, your mother and all--eh, Phronsie?"
"Yes, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, her round face falling. Yet she had
promised not to cry, and, although she had a hard time of it, every
tear was kept back valiantly.
"And Polly, now--" asked old Mr. King, cautiously, "and Jasper--how
were they feeling?"
"Grandpapa," Phronsie did not trust herself to reply, but, springing
up, she laid her rosy little mouth close to his ear. "What does it
all--the dreadful thing mean?" she whispered.
"It means," old Mr. King whispered back, but very distinctly, "that
your old Granddaddy is an idiot, Phronsie, and that he has been rude,
and let his temper run away with him."
"Oh, no, Grandpapa dear," contradicted Phronsie, falling back from him
in horror. "You couldn't ever be that what you say." And she flung both
arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.
"What? An idiot? Yes, I have been an idiot of the worst kind," declared
Mr. King, "and all the rest just as I say; rude and--why, what is the
matter, Phronsie?" for the little arms clutched him so tightly he could
hardly breathe.
"Oh, Grandpapa," she wailed, and drawing away a bit to look at him, he
saw her face convulsed with the effort not to cry.
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