Phronsie gave a start of incredulity and peered around at him.

“I really do.  You are going abroad to be gone—­well, we’ll say a year.  And your dolls would be so lonely without anything to do but to sit all day and think of their little mother.  And there are so many children who would love them and make them happy.”  Now Mr. King’s white hair was very near the yellow waves floating over his shoulder, so that none but Phronsie’s ears caught the next words.  “It’s right, Phronsie dear; I’d do it if I were you,” he said in a low voice.

“Do you want it, Grandpapa?” asked Phronsie softly.

“I do, child; but not unless you are willing”—­

“Then I do,” declared Phronsie, sitting quite straight on his knee.  And she gave a relieved sigh.  “Oh, Grandpapa, if we only had the poor children now!” she exclaimed, dreadfully excited.

“Come, then.”  Old Mr. King set her on her feet.  “Clear the way there, good people; we are going to find some poor children who are waiting for dolls,” and he threw wide the door into a back passage, and there, presided over by Jencks, and crowding for the first entrance, was a score of children with outstretched hands.

“Oh—­oh!” exclaimed Phronsie with cheeks aflame.

“Please, he said we was to have dolls,” cried one hungry-eyed girl, holding out both her hands.  “I’ve never had one.  Please give me one quick.”

“Never had one?” echoed Phronsie, taking a step toward her.

“Only a piece, Miss, I found in a rag-barrel.  Please give me one quick.”

“She’s never had a doll—­only a piece,” repeated Phronsie, turning back to the family, unable to contain this information.

“Ask the others if they have had any,” said Mr. King, leaning against a tall cabinet.  “Try that girl there in a brown plaid dress.”

“Have you ever had a doll?” asked Phronsie obediently, looking over at the girl indicated, and holding her breath for the answer.

At this, the girl in the brown plaid dress burst into tears, which so distressed Phronsie that she nearly cried.

“Yes, but it died,” said the girl after a little.

“Oh, Grandpapa, her doll died!” exclaimed Phronsie in horror.

“No, it didn’t, Jane,” corrected another girl, “the dog et it; you know he did.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jane, between small sobs, “it died, and we couldn’t have any fun’ral, ’cause the dog had et it.”

“Well, now, Phronsie,” exclaimed Mr. King, getting away from the support of the cabinet, “I think it’s time that we should make some of these children happy.  Don’t you want to take them up to the playroom and distribute the dolls?”

“No, no,” protested Phronsie suddenly.  “I must go up and tell my children.  They will understand it better then, Grandpapa.  I’ll be back in a very few minutes,” and going out she went quickly upstairs, and after a while returned with both arms full.