“You see,” said Phronsie deliberately, “Miss Fitzwilliam must not be left to spread the story about Grace. And she won’t want to when I tell her all about it. She’ll feel sorry that she told in the first place.” “You don’t know Miss Fitzwilliam, Phronsie, if you say so,” burst out Polly. “She’s the veriest gossip there is in all Berton--or the universe either. It won’t do a bit of good for you to go to see her. She can’t change, child; she’s too old.” “Ah, but she must,” said Phronsie, shaking her head; “and if nobody tells her how wrong it is to set people against Grace--why, she will go on doing so all the time.” “Phronsie,” said Polly desperately, and leaning past the coffee-urn, “I can’t bear to have you put yourself in that old gossip’s house. Oh, dear me! why is it that nobody puts her down? Everybody hates her; and then they listen to her stories just the same.” “That’s just it,” said Jasper, pushing back his chair; “they listen to her stories, Polly, as you say. They’re as bad as she is, every whit.” “But I can’t see them all, I’m afraid,” said Phronsie, setting down her empty glass. “Miss Fitzwilliam started it, so I ought to talk with her.” “Phronsie, does Grandpapa know you’re going to see Miss Fitzwilliam?” asked Polly, seeing here a ray of hope that the visit to town would be given up. “Oh, yes! did you think I would go to see her without telling Grandpapa, Polly?” asked Phronsie with a grieved look in her brown eyes. “No, dear,” said Polly hastily. Then she got out of her chair, and ran around to drop a kiss on Phronsie’s yellow hair; but Phronsie moving just then, the kiss fell on the little bunch of brown flowers on the top of her bonnet. “Dear me!” said Polly with a laugh, “well, I’m sure I’m willing to kiss your bonnet, Phronsie, as it isn’t all decked up with birds’ wings. I knew, of course, you’d tell Grandpapa everything, Phronsie.” “Oh, I couldn’t wear a bird’s wings on my bonnet; you know I couldn’t, Polly!” exclaimed Phronsie in horror. “No more could I,” declared Polly. “I should feel as if I’d murdered the sweetest thing on earth, to perk a bird up on my bonnet. Oh, dear me!” aghast at the thought. “Jasper, what shall we do,” as Phronsie got up and went over to the sideboard to get an orange for her bag, “to keep Phronsie from going to town?” “I don’t believe we better try any more, Polly,” said Jasper, going over to take his wife’s hand. “I really believe it’s best to let Phronsie alone, for she thinks that she ought to go.” “But that old thing!” began Polly impulsively, “and our Phronsie.” “It won’t hurt Phronsie,” said Jasper wisely, putting his arm around Polly’s waist, to look into her eyes. “No, Polly, I don’t believe we ought to say any more. Come, Phronsie, are you ready?” “Yes, I am,” said Phronsie, patting her little bag; “all ready, Jasper. Polly, I’ll get your red wool; you said you didn’t have time yesterday.”