"Oh, Polly, see the cunning little doll-houses!" exclaimed Phronsie in
a little scream, flying about from Grandpapa at the head of his party
on their way up from the boat-landing, and then back to the rear of the
procession, which happened to be Polly and Jasper.

"Hush, Phronsie, don't talk so loud; they are not doll-houses," said
Polly. "People live in them."

"People live in them!" echoed Phronsie, standing quite still on the
paved road, that shone as if just freshly scoured.

"Yes, yes; come along, child, the people will hear you," said Polly,
seizing her hand.

Phronsie suffered herself to be piloted along, but she stumbled more
than once over the cobbles, her eyes were so busy.

"Take care, Phronsie," warned Polly, "you came near falling on your
nose that time."

"I'll go on the other side," said Jasper; "there, now, Phronsie, give
us your hand. Well, I don't wonder you are surprised. I never saw such
a place as this Broek is."

"They've just washed it all up, haven't they, Jasper?" asked Polly, her
brown eyes scanning the little walks along each tiny garden they
passed. Everything shone alike.