"Bless you, yes, child." He put the glass into her hand. "Take care,
Phronsie, don't drink so fast."

"Honey will choke herself," cried Sarah, in alarm, holding up warning black
fingers. "Oh, my! she's done drunk it mos' all up a'ready."

"There, there, Phronsie!" Grandpapa took hold of the glass.

"Phronsie," said Mother Fisher, and it was her hand that took the glass
away from the eager lips. "You must eat a roll now, or a little bit of
toast."

"But I want some more milk," said Phronsie, and her lips quivered.

"Not yet, Phronsie." Mother Fisher was cutting up the toast, and now held
up a morsel on the spoon. "See how very nice it is."

"We'll play it is five-o'clock tea," said old Mr. King, at his wit's end to
bring the smiles into her face. Phronsie turned and gave him one look, then
buried her face in his waistcoat and cried as hard as she could.

"There, there!" The old gentleman got up to his feet and began to pace the
floor again, his white hair bent over her face, his hand patting her back
gently. "Don't cry, poor little lamb." And as a sudden thought struck him,
"Just look at your mother, Phronsie; you are making her sick."

Up popped Phronsie's yellow head, the tears trailing off from the round
cheeks till they fell on the floor. There stood Mother Fisher, quite still.