"I can't," said Phronsie, in a faint little voice. Her cheeks were very
red, and she wiped her hot face on her white apron. "You must give me
Clorinda, and I must go home," and she held out a shaking hand.

But the girl danced off, and Phronsie, without a thought beyond the rescue
of her child, stumbled on after her, scarcely seeing one step before her
for the tears that, despite all her efforts, now began to stream down her
round cheeks.

At last, in trying to turn out for a baker's boy with a big basket, she
caught her foot and fell, a tired little heap, flat in a mud puddle in the
middle of the brick pavement.

"My eye!" cried the baker's boy, lifting her up. "Here, you girl, your
sister's fell, ker-squash!"

At this, the flying girl in front whirled suddenly and came running back,
and took in the situation at once.

"Come on, you lazy thing, you!" she exclaimed; then she burst into a laugh.
"Oh, how you look!"

"Give me back--" panted Phronsie, rubbing away the tears with her muddy
hands, regardless of her splashed clothes and dirty shoes.

"Keep still, can't you?" cried the girl, gripping her arm, as two or three
pedestrians paused to stare at the two. "Come on, sister," and she seized
Phronsie's hand, and bore her off. But on turning the corner, she stopped
abruptly, and, still holding the doll closely, she dropped to one knee and
wiped off the tears from the muddy little cheeks with a not ungentle hand.