thoroughly dismayed at being obliged to remove their traps into a
corner.

Phronsie still stood just where Polly left her. Two hundred
candles!
oh! what could it mean! She gazed up to the old beams overhead,
and around the dingy walls, and to the old black stove, with the
fire nearly out, and then over everything the kitchen contained,
trying to think how it would seem. To have it bright and winsome
and warm! to suit Polly--"ohl" she screamed.

"Goodness!" said Polly, taking her head out of the old cupboard in
the corner, "how you scared me, Phronsie!"

"Would they ever go out?" asked the child gravely, still standing
where Polly left her.

"What?" asked Polly, stopping with a dish of cold potatoes in her
hand. "What, Phronsie?"

"Why, the candles," said the child, "the ever-an'-ever so many
pretty lights!"

"Oh, my senses!" cried Polly, with a little laugh, "haven't you
forgotten that! Yes--no, that is, Phronsie, if we could have 'em at
all, we wouldn't ever let 'em go out!"

"Not once?" asked Phronsie, coming up to Polly with a little skip,
and nearly upsetting her, potatoes and all--"not once, Polly, truly?"