"I didn't say so!" cried Polly, starting up. "Why, Ben Pepper, I
never said so!" and she looked ready to cry.

"It sounds something like it, don't it, manimy?" said Ben, unwilling
to give her pain, but appealing to Mrs. Pepper.

"Polly didn't mean it," said her mother consolingly; "but if I were
you, I'd say something to explain it."

"I can't put anything in now," said poor Polly; "there isn't any room
nor any more paper either--what shall I do! I told you, Ben, I
couldn't write." And Polly looked helplessly from one to the other
for comfort.

"Yes, you can," said Ben; "there, now I'll show you: write it fine,
Polly--you write so big--little bits of letters, like these."

So Polly took the pen again with a sigh. "Now he won't think so, I
guess," she said, much relieved, as Ben began to read again.

"I'll begin yours again," Ben said: "We most of us knew you were
sick because you didn't come, and we liked your letter telling us so
because we'd all felt so badly, and Phronsie cried herself to sleep'--
(that's good, I'm sure.) 'The "gingerbread boy" is for your
father--please excuse it, but Phronsie would make it for him
because he is sick. There isn't any more to write, and besides I
can't write good, and Ben's tired. From all of us.'"

"Why, how's he to know?" cried Ben. "That won't do to sign it."