“Polly is learning to play beautifully,” mused Phronsie, nursing one foot contemplatively, as she curled up on the floor.  “And Ben is to be a capital business man, so Papa Fisher says, and Joel is going to buy up this whole town sometime, and Davie knows ever so many books from beginning to end, but what can I do?”

Down went the little foot to the floor, and the yellow head drooped over the white apron.

“Nothing,” mourned Phronsie, “just nothing at all; not even the wee-est teeniest bit of anything do I know how to do.  O, dear!”

Outside, Jasper was calling to Prince.  Phronsie could hear the big dog rushing over the lawn in response, barking furiously as he went.  But she did not move.

“And Mamsie will never be glad for me, unless I learn how to do things too.  If I don’t hurry, I shall never be grown up.”

“Tweet—­tweet—­ch-r-r-r”—­Cherry in his cage over her head, chirped vigorously by way of consolation, but Phronsie did not lift her head.  Cherry seeing all his efforts in vain, stopped his song and rolled one black eye down at her in astonishment, and soon became quite still.

Presently the rustle of a stiff black satin gown became the chief intruder upon the silence.  It was so asserting that Phronsie lifted her head to look into the face of Mrs. Chatterton, standing before her, playing with the rings on her long white hands, and regarding her as if she would soon require an explanation of such strange conduct.

“What are you doing, Phronsie?” at last demanded the lady.

“Thinking,” said Phronsie; and she laid her chin in her hand, and slowly turned her gaze upon the thin, disagreeable face before her, but not as if in the slightest degree given up to a study of its lines and expression.

“So I perceive,” said Mrs. Chatterton harshly.  “Well, and what are you thinking of, pray tell?”

Still Phronsie looked beyond her, and it was not until the question had been repeated, that an answer came.

“Of many things,” said Phronsie, “but I do not think I ought to tell you.”

“And why not, pray?” cried the lady, with a short and most unpleasant laugh.

“Because I do not think you would understand them,” said Phronsie.  And now she looked at the face she had before overlooked, with a deliberate scrutiny as if she would not need to repeat the attention.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton angrily, “and pray how long since your thoughts have been so valuable?”

“My thoughts are nice ones,” said Phronsie slowly, “because they are about nice people.”

“Ah!”

“And they won’t tell themselves.  And I ought not to make them.  They would fly away then, and I should never find them again, when I wanted to think them.”

“Your mother brought you up well, I must say,” observed Mrs. Chatterton, deliberately drawing up a chair and putting her long figure within it, “to talk in this style to a lady as old as I am.”