This was best of
all--so Polly and Jasper thought; and Phronsie was content to pass hour
after hour there, by Grandpapa's side, and imagine all sorts of pretty
pictures and stories in and about the snow-clad heights of the majestic
mountain.
And the throng of gaily dressed people sojourning in the big hotels,
and the stream of tourists, passed and repassed, with many a curious
glance at the stately, white-haired old gentleman and the little
yellow-haired girl by his side.
"A perfect beauty!" exclaimed more than one matron, with a sigh for her
ugly girls by her side or left at home.
"She's stunning, and no mistake!" Many a connoisseur in feminine
loveliness turned for a last look, or passed again for the same
purpose.
"Grandpapa," Phronsie prattled on, "that looks just like a little tent
up there--a little white tent; doesn't it, Grandpapa dear?"
"Yes, Phronsie," said Grandpapa, happily, just as he would have said
"Yes, Phronsie," if she had pointed out any other object in the snowy
outline.
"And there's a cunning little place where you and I could creep into
the tent," said Phronsie, bending her neck like a meditative bird. "And
I very much wish we could, Grandpapa dear."
"We'd find it pretty cold in there," said Grandpapa, "and wish we were
back here on this nice seat, Phronsie."
"What makes it so cold up there, Grandpapa, when the sun shines?" asked
Phronsie, suddenly.
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