“Perhaps Joel and Phronsie will think as we do,” said Polly.  But her heart said No.

“All right if they do,” said Mr. King easily, “but unless you come and tell me it is their own choice, why, I shall just go on with my plans as mapped out,” he added obstinately.  “Thomas,” as that functionary appeared in the doorway, “take the letters to the post at once; you will find them on my writing table.”

“All right, sir.”

“I’ll give you till to-morrow to find out,” said Mr. King.  “Now come and kiss me, Polly dear.  You’ll see it’s all right after it’s over, and be glad I had the sense to keep my mind about it.”

Polly put up her lips obediently.  But it was a sad little kiss that was set upon his mouth, and it left him feeling like a criminal.

And running out, she met her difficult task without a moment of preparation.

“Halloo, Polly!” whooped Joel, rushing around an angle in the hall, “Grandpapa promised me that I might go out with him, to give the supper orders, and all that kind of nonsense.”

Polly’s heart stood still.

“Joel,” she began, seizing his jacket with trembling fingers, “come up into my room a minute.”

“What’s up?” cried Joel with curiosity; “some more mysteries?  There’s nothing but whisperings, and secrets, and no end of jolly understandings, ever since Mamsie commenced to marry Dr. Fisher.  Go ahead, I’ll come.”

“And Phronsie, too,” said Polly, seeing the yellow head emerge from the breakfast-room doorway.

“Come on, Phron,” sang out Joel, “up in Polly’s room—­she wants you,” and the three hurried off.

“Now, Joel,” said Polly, closing the door and facing him desperately, “you are Mamsie’s own boy.”

“I should think so,” said Joel, “I’m not anybody’s else.  Is that all you brought me up here to say?” thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking at her.

“And you can make her happy, or just as miserable as I can’t say what,” went on Polly incoherently.

“What in the world are you firing at?” demanded the boy, visions of certain pranks at school unpleasantly before him.  “Don’t shoot over my head, Polly, but keep somewhere near your mark,” he advised irritably.

Phronsie surveyed the two with wide eyes, and a not wholly pleased manner.

“Mamsie does not want a big wedding,” declared Polly, going to the heart of the matter, “but dear kind Grandpapa thinks it will please us children, and so he wants to give her one.”

“And so it will,” cried Joel, “please us children.  Whoop la! give us your hand, Phronsie, this is the way we’ll dance afterwards at the party.”

“I don’t want to dance,” said Phronsie, standing quite still in the middle of the room.  The morning sun shone across her yellow hair, but no light came into the large eyes.  “Polly wants something, first; what is it, Joel?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Joel, poised on a careless foot, and executing a remarkable pas seul.  “I don’t believe she knows herself.  Polly is often queer, you know, Phronsie,” he added cheerfully.