Phronsie hurried over to the doll, sitting up in pink loveliness against
the tree, knelt down on the grass, and patted her with gentle hand, and
smoothed down her curls. A curious sound broke in upon her work, and she
looked up and listened. "I must go back," she whispered to her child, and
in a minute she was running around the figure of the girl, to stare into
her face.

"Ow--get out!" cried the girl crossly, and she whirled off, pulling up her
ragged dress to her face.

"I thought I heard you cry," said Phronsie in a troubled voice, and
following her in distress.

"Phoo!" cried the girl, snapping her fingers in derision, and spinning
around on the tips of her toes, "'twas the cat."

"No," said Phronsie decidedly, and shaking her head, "it couldn't be the
cat, because she doesn't hardly ever cry, and besides she isn't here"--and
she looked all around--"don't you see she isn't?"

"Well, then, 'twas that bird," said the girl, pointing up to a high branch.
"Ain't you green, not to think of him!"

"I don't _think_ it was the bird," said Phronsie slowly, and peering
up anxiously, "and he doesn't cry again, so I 'most know he couldn't have
cried then."

"Well, he will, if you wait long enough," said the girl defiantly.