“Um—­um—­maybe,” said Joel, twisting uneasily.  “Well, now, come here, please, Father Fisher.”

The little man turned away from the table, with its sprawling array of delightful things, to stand by the bedside.

“You must get me well as soon as you can,” said Joel confidentially.

“All right; I understand,” Dr. Fisher nodded professionally.

“And whatever you say, don’t let it be that I must be careful of my eyes,” said Joel.

“All right; that is, if you get up quickly,” agreed the doctor.

“That’s all,” said Joel in great satisfaction.  “Now, call Mamsie in and the others.”

And in the morning, no one told Phronsie what had happened the night before.  She only knew that Joel was not very well, and was going to keep his room; all her pleadings to do something for him being set one side by Grandpapa’s demands upon her instant attention whenever the idea suggested itself to her.  And so the time wore along till the party began.

Alexia was the first to arrive, her bowl of orange jelly in her hand, and after her, a tall slight figure jumped from the carriage, her flaxen hair streaming out in two pale braids.

“I thought I’d pick Cathie up,” said Alexia carelessly; “had to pass her door, you know.  O dear me, what perfectly dreadful times you had last night, Polly Pepper.”

“I didn’t bring macaroons,” said Cathie, “as I really think that they wouldn’t be good for Phronsie.  Besides, I’ve forgotten how to make them, and our cook was cross and said I shouldn’t come into her kitchen.  But I bought a doll for Phronsie; my mother said it would be a great deal more sensible present,” and she hugged the long box under her arm with great satisfaction.

“O dear! dear!” groaned Alexia, falling back with Polly as the three raced along the hall, “she showed it to me in the carriage, and it’s a perfect guy, besides counting one more.”

But afflictions like this were small to Polly now, and although for the next hour it rained dolls into Phronsie’s puzzled hands, Polly helped her to thank the givers and to dispose them safely on neighboring chairs and tables and sofas.

Mrs. Chatterton’s was the pattern of old Mr. King’s phonograph doll, at which discovery he turned upon her with venom in his eye.

“My gift to my little granddaughter,” taking especial care to emphasize the relationship, “has always been a doll, I suppose you knew that, Cousin Eunice; and to try to procure one exactly like the one I have purchased, is very presuming in you, to say the least.”

“And why may I not present a doll to Phronsie Pepper, if I care to, pray tell?” demanded Mrs. Chatterton in a high, cold tone.

“Why? because you have always showed a marked dislike for the child,” cried old Mr. King angrily, “that’s why, Cousin Eunice.”

“Grandpapa—­Grandpapa,” said Phronsie, laying her hand on his arm.