"Come, Princess." The head dragon held out his hand. "Hurry dear! See
the flowers!"

"They can't be for me," said Phronsie, standing quite still; "Polly has
done all the work; they're hers."

"Nonsense, child!" cried Polly, giving her a gentle push forward. "Go
on, and take them."

"Polly, you come too," begged Phronsie, refusing to stir, and holding
her by the gown.

"I can't, Phronsie," cried Polly in distress; "don't you see they
haven't called me. Go on, child, if you love me," she implored.

Phronsie, not being able to resist this, dropped Polly's gown and
floated before the footlights.

"Thank you," she said, bowing gravely to the sea of faces, as her hands
were filled with roses, "but I shall give these to Polly, because we
couldn't any of us have done it without her." And so she brought them
back to put into dismayed Polly's lap.

"The authors--the authors of the play!" cried a strong voice, privately
urged on by Mr. King.

"There, now's your turn," cried Clare to Polly. "And go ahead, old
dragon," to Jasper, "make your prettiest bow."