Dr. Fisher planted his small body firmly in front of the old gentleman.  “You must obey me.”

Obey?  When had Mr. King heard that word addressed to himself.  He drew a long breath, looked full into the spectacled eyes, then said, “All right, Fisher; I suppose you know best,” and went back to his arm-chair.

“I’m so tired, Polly,” Phronsie was saying, and the arms, Polly could feel, were dropping slowly from her neck.

“Are you, Pet?  Well, now, I’ll tell you what we’ll do.  Let us both go to sleep.  There, Phronsie, now you put your arms down, so”—­Polly gave them a swift little tuck under the bed-clothes—­“and I’ll get up beside you, so”—­and she crept on to the bed—­“and we’ll both go right to ’nid-nid-nodland,’ don’t you know?”

“You’re sure you won’t let me go?” whispered Phronsie, cuddling close, and feeling for Polly’s neck again.

“Oh! just as sure as I can be,” declared Polly cheerfully, while the tears rained down her cheek in the darkness.

“I feel something wet,” said Phronsie, drawing back one hand.  “What is it, Polly?”

“Oh! that,” said Polly with a start.  “Oh—­well, it’s—­well, I’m crying, Phronsie; but I’m so glad—­oh! you don’t know how glad I am, sweet,” and she leaned over and kissed her.

“If you’re glad,” said Phronsie weakly, “I don’t care.  But please don’t cry if you are not glad, Polly.”

“Well, now we’re fixed,” said Polly as gaily as she could.  “Give me your hand, Pet.  There, now, good-night.”

“Good-night,” said Phronsie.  Polly could feel her tucking the other hand under her cheek on the pillow, and then, blessed sound—­the long quiet breathing that told of rest.

“Oh! better, is she?” Mrs. Chatterton looked up quickly to see Mrs. Whitney’s pale face.  “Well, I supposed she would be.  I thought I’d sit here and wait to know, since you were all so frightened.  But I knew it wouldn’t amount to much.  Now, girl,” nodding over to the maid still in the corner, “you may get me to bed.”  And she stretched her stiff limbs, and held out her hand imperatively.

“It was very fortunate that I did not tell,” she said, when the slow passage to her own apartments had been achieved.  “Now if the child will only keep still, all will be well.”

XVIII

THE GIRLS HAVE POLLY AGAIN

“Phronsie shall have a baked apple this morning,” said Mother Fisher, coming into the sunny room where Phronsie lay propped up against the pillows.

“Did Papa-Doctor say so?” asked Phronsie, a smile of supreme content spreading over her wan little face.

“Yes, he did,” said her mother; “as nice an apple, red and shiny as we could find, is downstairs baking for you, Phronsie.  When it’s done, Sarah is to bring it up.”

“That will be very nice,” breathed Phronsie slowly.  “And I want my little tea-set—­just the two cups and saucers—­and my own little pot and sugar-bowl.  Do let me, Mamsie, and you shall have a cup of milk with me,” she cried, a little pink color stealing into either cheek.