"Oh dear--dear!" Polly was yet wailing. Then she remembered, and threw
her arms around Phronsie who was standing quite still by her side.
"Phronsie, precious pet," and she picked up her pretty stuff gown to
kneel on the platform-floor to look into the little face, "don't feel
badly, dear. Joel will come on the next train."

"But he won't be with us," said Phronsie slowly, and turning her brown
eyes piteously to Polly.

"I know it," Polly smothered a sigh, "but we can't help it now.
Grandpapa is feeling dreadfully; oh, Phronsie, you wouldn't make him
sick, dear, for all the world!"

Phronsie unclasped her hands, and went unsteadily over to the old
gentleman. "Joel will come on the next train, Grandpapa," she said.

"Bless me, yes, of course," said Mr. King, seizing her hand; "I don't
see what we are making such a fuss for. He'll come on the next train."

"What's the riot?" asked Livingston Bayley, sauntering up, and whirling
his walking-stick, "eh?"

"Joel's absconded," said Mr. Dyce briefly.

"Eh?"

"Gone back after Phronsie's box of dolls," explained somebody else.

"Oh dear me," cried Alexia Rhys, trying to get near Polly, "just like