So David ran over to the shelf where, in a corner behind the
little china mug given to Phronsie when she was a baby, lay the
pen in its long black holder. Getting up on a chair, he seized
it.

"If Phronsie hadn't gone with Mamsie, she'd want to write," he
said, "wouldn't she, Polly?" as he hopped down again.

"Yes, indeed," said Polly, drawing up the inkstand into the best
place, and sighing. "Well, dear me, I'd ever so much rather hold
her hand while she writes, than to do it myself." And she gave a
long stretch.

"Then you wouldn't ever learn yourself," said little Davie,
wisely, and putting the pen down carefully.

"No," said Polly, with a little laugh, "I s'pose I shouldn't,
Davie." O dear me, she thought, I ought not to laugh when Joel's
in there all alone in the provision room. "Well, now we're all
ready. I'm just going to peek and see if he's all right. You
stay here, Davie."

With that she hopped off down the little steps to look through
the big crack in the old door of the provision room.

"Why--where--" she started back and rubbed her eyes, and stared
again. "Oh! Davie," she screamed. Then she clapped her hands
over her mouth. "It never'd do to scare him," she said. And she
opened the provision room door and rushed in. The old stool