CHAPTER IV.
MISS BEAN COMES TO LUNCH.
"Oh, dear me, Jean!" sighed Polly. "I do believe there's Miss
Deborah Bean coming down the street."
"What of her?" inquired Jean indifferently.
"Why, if 'tis, she's coming here to lunch. She says all the hateful things she can think of; and you don't know how queer she is. I can't help laughing at her; and that makes mamma cross, for she wants me to be polite to her, because she's old as Methuselah and poor as Job's turkey."
"I didn't suppose your mother was ever cross," said Jean.
"Oh, she isn't cross, exactly; but sometimes she doesn't like things as well as others."
"Most people don't," remarked Jean sagely.
Miss Bean's present home was in the poorhouse, from which place of retreat she made expeditions into the town, at intervals, to visit her old acquaintances, and among them was Mrs. Adams, for whose mother she had sewed, during her younger, stronger days. On these great occasions, she was wont to cast aside the plain gown which she ordinarily wore, and bring out to the light of day the one that had for years served as her best when she went into the institution. Accordingly, it was a strange figure that turned in at the doctor's gate, and came to a halt before the two girls who were sitting on the grass under one of the tall elms on the lawn. Her gown was of some black woollen stuff, figured with green, and its short, full skirt fell in voluminous folds over her large hoops. A white muslin cape covered her shoulders; and her head was adorned with a yellow straw shaker bonnet, in the depths of which her wrinkled face, with its pointed chin and bright eyes, looked like the face of some mammoth specimen of the cat tribe, an effect that was increased by her high, shrill voice. Black lace mitts covered her hands; and she carried, point upward, a venerable brown umbrella, loosely rolled up, and held in place with two rubber bands.
"Is your ma at home?" she asked Polly abruptly.
"She's in the house," answered Polly, rising with some reluctance.
"I'll go and call her. You stay here, Jean."
"Jean who?" inquired Miss Bean, bringing her spectacles to bear on
Jean's blooming face.
"Jean Dwight, ma'am," said Jean demurely, in spite of a strong desire to laugh.
"Bill Dwight's daughter?"
Jean nodded, while her color rose at the rough abbreviation of her father's name.
"I want to know! He was a son of old Enos Dwight and Melissy Pettigrew; and I can remember the time, and not so very long ago, either, when the Adamses wouldn't have had anything to do with such folks," remarked Miss Bean, who Avas not only a firm believer in the aristocracy of the old town, but regarded it as her right to utter all the disagreeable truths that came into her brain.
To-day she had spoken rashly, for Polly, angry at the insult to her friend, faced her with blazing eyes, while every little curl on her head was dancing with indignation.
"It doesn't make any difference what you think about it, Miss
Bean. My mother has charge of me, not you; and she's glad to have
Jean come here."
"Dear sakes! Red hair does show in the temper," sighed Miss Bean, unconsciously touching another sore spot, for Polly's hair was one of her trials.
"I'd rather have red hair and a temper, than meddle with what doesn't—" Polly was beginning hotly; but remembering that the old woman, though uninvited, was yet a guest, she added hastily, "Come into the house."
When she came out under the trees again, she found Jean still sitting on the grass, with a little suspicious moisture around her eyes. Polly dropped down by her side, and impulsively pulling Jean's head over into her lap, she bent down and kissed her.
"It's a shame, Jean!" said she. "Don't you mind a word the old thing says. I don't care anything about your grandpa and grandma; they might have been brought up in jail, for all I care. It's you that I like. She's a horrid old woman."
"I don't mean to care," said Jean disconsolately; "but some people always have to tell me I'm a nobody."
"No, you aren't, you're somebody," contradicted Polly. "And as long as you're splendid yourself, I don't see what difference it makes whether you have forty cents or forty million dollars, and whether you carpenter for a living or doctor for it,—or beg for it, the way she does."
They were silent for a minute, and then Polly added, with a laugh,—
"There's one thing about it, we'll have some fun out of her, for she's going to stay to lunch, and she's so funny at the table. She minces so, and she never refuses anything to eat without telling just why she doesn't like it. One time, mamma offered her some pie, and she said, 'Oh, my, no! I never eat it. Pie-crust is grease packed in flour.' I'm so glad you are here to-day."
When the girls went into the house at lunch time, Miss Bean was in the midst of a stream of gossip. Her usual surroundings gave rise to no more varied subjects than the personal appearance of her companions, and the routine of the housework, in which they all had a share. Doubtless it was partly for this reason that the worthy woman made the most of her brief outings, to gather up any bits of information which might serve to enliven the days to come, and render her an object of admiration in the community where she was passing her time. In spite of Aunt Jane's frowns, and the efforts of Mrs. Adams to turn the conversation, she was running on and on, helped by an occasional word from the doctor, who derived much amusement from the old woman's visits. As Polly and Jean seated themselves across the table from her, she glanced up to eye them with little favor, and then went on,—
"As I was saying, I stopped in to Miss Hapgood's on my way up, and she'd just got a letter from Kate. You remember Kate Harvey, her sister that married Henry Shepard and went out to Omaha to live, don't you? He's made a lot of money, but people always said he was a miserable sort of fellow."
"Let the doctor give you some of the oysters, Miss Bean," interrupted Mrs. Adams desperately. "No, I don't eat oysters now; there's no R in August," replied Miss Bean frankly.
"Unless you spell it O-r-gust," whispered Jean, in an aside which made Polly choke over her glass of water.
"Well," resumed Miss Bean tranquilly, "Kate's got two daughters of her own, about Molly's age, and she wants 'em to come there and board, and go to school at Miss Webster's. I don't know's I wonder, for I don't suppose there's any schools in them little western towns; but Mis' Hapgood's all upset about it. I told her she'd better take 'em, and charge a good, round price for 'em; but she says she hasn't much room, and then she don't know how they'd get along with Molly."
"Do you think they'll come?" inquired Polly eagerly.
"I don't know," answered Miss Bean coldly. "Mis' Hapgood hasn't made up her mind. She sets great store by Kate, being her only sister," she went on, turning back to the doctor; "and so I shouldn't much wonder if she took 'em, after all. They say his father shot himself, and—"
"Have some of these preserved plums, Miss Bean," said Mrs. Adams, lifting the spoon persuasively.
"No, thank you. Preserves isn't very hulsome, and I don't go much on them, excepting pie-plant and molasses," answered Miss Bean, as she poured out her coffee into her saucer.
At this somewhat unexpected response, Jean pinched Polly's hand under the table, and they both giggled.
"Some folks," continued Miss Bean reflectively, "say it's a coward that commits suicide; but, my soul and body! I think it's just the other way; I never should get up spunk enough." Then, with an abrupt change of subject, she added: "Speaking of folks dying, I see Mr. Solomon Baxter as I was coming along. He's aged a good deal since his wife died, and no wonder, poor man! with all his six children to look out for. He shook hands with me, and he seemed so all cut up when I told him how lonesome he looked, that I says to him: 'Mr. Baxter, why don't you get married again? There's lots of good women left, as many as there ever was. Why don't you take Miss Roberts, now? She'd manage your children for you, I'll warrant.'"
This was too much for the doctor and the girls, and they burst out laughing, while Aunt Jane remarked stiffly,—
"Thank you, Miss Bean; but I have no present desire to be married."
"Well, I didn't know but what you might think 'twas a case of duty," responded Miss Bean grimly.
As soon as the meal was over, Polly and Jean adjourned to the lawn again, and sat down to discuss the situation, for they were both much excited over the possible coming of Molly's cousins.
"I saw some pictures of them, once," said Polly, as she settled herself in the hammock. "They were pretty, and they were just elegantly dressed, with piles of lace and things, and gold chains round their necks."
"Miss Bean said they had lots of money," said Jean thoughtfully.
"Yes," answered Polly; "and they looked as if they had it all on.. Mamma says 'tisn't a good idea for young girls to wear jewelry, and she won't let me have any at all, but just these." As she spoke, Polly touched the string of gold beads that lay closely about her throat. They had been her great-grandmother's beads, and Polly had received them for her name.
"I shouldn't wonder if they did that more out West," said Jean.
"How old are they, Polly?"
"One is older than Molly," answered Polly "and the other is about Alan's age. Molly hasn't ever seen them, for they've always lived out there I hope they won't come, though," she added emphatically.
"Why not?" inquired Jean. "If they're nice I think it would be fun to have them here."
"I don't," said Polly. "There are just enough of us, as it is; and if they were here, we shouldn't get any good of Molly."
"It won't make any difference, if they don't go to the same school with us. And besides, you said this morning that you couldn't bear Molly," said Jean a little maliciously.
"You know I never meant any such thing, Jean," said Polly impatiently. "I like Molly Hapgood better than any other girl in this town, and you know that just as well as I do."
"What about me?" inquired Jean, laughing, for she was accustomed to Polly's moods, and was by no means angry at the alarming frankness of her reply, as she said tragically,—
"I like you ever so much, Jean; but, honestly, I like Molly better, when she's nice, for we've always been together; and I don't want these dreadful girls to come in between us."
"I don't believe they will, any more than Florence and I do," said
Jean soothingly.
At the mention of Florence's name, Polly straightened up, and looked right into Jean's eyes.
"Jean Dwight," said she, "if you'll never, never tell, I am going to say something to you that I never told anybody before."
"What is it?" asked Jean curiously.
"You promise not to tell?"
"Why, of course, if you don't want me to."
"Well," said Polly, in a whisper, "I think Florence is a perfect little flat. There! I suppose mamma would say I was as bad as Miss Bean, with all her gossip, but I can't help it, it's true. But don't let's talk about it any more, it makes me so cross. Perhaps they won't come, anyway."
"Here comes Alan," said Jean, glancing up as the boy turned in at the gate; "maybe he can tell us something about them." In fact, the lad had come to see Polly for no other purpose than to talk the matter over with her, for Polly was his truest friend in the V, and the two children exchanged confidences with the same simple good-fellowship they might have shown, had they both been girls. Polly never snubbed Alan because he was younger, as Molly did, but invariably stood as his champion when the other girls scolded him, and tried to send him away; and Alan, on his side, never rubbed Polly the wrong way, but respected her quick temper. Of course he teased her, as every natural boy teases the girls with whom he is thrown; but it was a gay, good-natured sort of teasing that never irritated Polly in the least. During his long, rheumatic fever of the winter before, she had been a most devoted friend, dropping in to see him at all sorts of odd hours, to amuse him with her merry nonsense, and had greatly disgusted the girls by frankly announcing her preference for his society over their own. And Alan returned the compliment with interest, declaring that he would "rather have Poll in one of her tantrums than the rest of them with all their best manners."
He came deliberately across the lawn, with his black and white striped cap cocked on the very back of his head, and his hands in the side pockets of his gray coat, and calmly disregarding the curiosity of the girls, he made no attempt to speak until he had comfortably settled himself on the grass at their feet.
"Well," he inquired at length, after he had arranged himself to his liking, with his hands clasped under his yellow head; "what is it you want to know?"
"Everything," demanded Polly, comprehensively.
"All right," he answered, lazily shutting his eyes. "The earth is the planet on which we live, and is about twenty-five thousand miles round; a decimal fraction is one whose denominator is ten, one hundred, one thousand, or and so forth; America was discovered in—"
"Oh, Alan, do be sensible if you can," said Jean. "We know all that stuff. What we want is to hear about these cousins of yours that are coming."
"How did you know anything about them?" asked the boy, in surprise.
"Miss Bean is here," answered Polly. "She went to see your mother on the way, and heard about it." "Oh."
There was a world of disgust in Alan's tone. Presently he went on,—
"Well, everybody will have to hear of it now. I came over to tell you, Poll, but it seems that old woman is in ahead."
"Are they really coming, then?" asked Polly anxiously.
"Hope not," said Alan, rolling over on his face and pulling up a handful of grass; "girls enough round already."
"That's not polite," returned Polly; "but go on."
"There isn't any on," said Alan. "All there is about it is that they want to come, and I'm afraid mother is going to let them. Molly likes it, but I don't want them round in the way. I know they'll be prim and fussy, without any fun in them. I believe I'll come over here and live."
"Come on," said Polly hospitably; then she proceeded in a moral tone, "But, Alan, you ought not to talk so about them, for they're your cousins, and you ought to like your relations, you know."
"Do you like Aunt Jane?" inquired Alan, suddenly rolling over to face her once more.
But Polly was spared the necessity of making any reply, by a sudden voice behind her.
"And so this is your garden, Mrs. Adams! It's a likely place for petunias and sweet williams, but I don't think much of those new- fangled things," pointing to a brilliant bed of dwarf nasturtiums near by. Then she went on in a sing-song tone,—
"'So I've come out to view the land
Where I must shortly lie.'"
"Needn't think I expect to lie in your garden, though," she hastily added, evidently fearful of being misunderstood.
"Hush, Alan! you must not laugh at her," said Polly, stifling her own merriment as best she could.
But Miss Bean, absorbed in her eloquence, had passed on out of hearing, and Jean returned to the charge.
"Come, Alan, there's a dear boy," she began persuasively, "tell us about the girls."
"I don't know much about them," answered Alan. "Katharine is the older one, about fifteen, and Jessie is just my age. Her birthday is the third and mine the seventh. I suppose they're well enough, but their pictures look a little toploftical, and I'm not over fond of that kind. They are going to bring their pony, if they come, and that will be fun, if mother will only let me ride him."
"You'll get your neck broken," predicted Polly. "Do you remember the day we tried to ride Job, and he lay down and rolled us off?"
"That was your fault," returned Alan; "if you hadn't gripped his mane so, he'd have been all right. Well," he added, sitting up and stretching himself, "mother sent me to the market, and I s'pose I must go, but I thought I'd just stop in a minute."
"Oh, dear! how I wish I had a brother!" sighed Polly, watching his boyish figure, as he sauntered away across the grass.
"Yes," said Jean slowly, as she thought of the four little brothers at home, "it is nice, but it has its drawbacks, Polly. When they all want to do the same thing at the same time, and can't wait a minute, why, then it doesn't seem quite so agreeable."
In the warm twilight, Mrs. Adams and Polly sat on the broad piazza. Miss Bean had taken her departure, long before, and Jean had gone home to help her mother get supper and put the younger children to bed. The birds were twittering their last sleepy good nights, and two or three little stars were faintly showing in the blue sky above the dark mountain, while scores of tiny fireflies were dotting the air below.
"There, Jerusalem!" Polly was saying triumphantly, as she perched herself on the broad arm of her mother's piazza chair; "now everybody is out of the way, and I can have you all to myself."
"What is it to-night?" inquired Mrs. Adams, laughing, as she pulled her light shawl over her shoulders to keep out the evening air.
"Lots of things, mamma," answered Polly, with a sudden thoughtfulness; "there's been a good deal to-day."
"About Molly's cousins, for instance?" asked Mrs. Adams.
"Yes," replied Polly; "I don't think we want them, mamma. I know they won't fit in a bit. And Alan says he doesn't want them."
"That's not quite fair of Alan," said her mother: "he oughtn't to say so without knowing anything more about them. But, Polly, you may find them pleasant friends, and like them better than you do Molly."
Polly shook her head with decision.
"I'm sure I shan't. But I'm afraid Molly will like them better than she does us."
"Jealous, Polly?" And there was a tone of regret in her mother's voice as she went on: "I am a little disappointed in my daughter. Of course, Polly, Molly will be thrown with them a great deal, much more than with you; and, so long as they are her cousins, she will probably be fond of them. But, after all these years, can't you trust Molly's friendship enough to believe that it won't make any difference in her feeling to you, but that she can love and care for you all, at the same time?"
"Sometimes I think she can, and sometimes I think she can't,'" said Polly slowly. "Once in a while, when we have had a 'scrap,' as Alan calls it, I think she doesn't care a bit about me."
"Whose fault is it, when you quarrel?" asked Mrs. Adams, smoothing the short curls. "I don't think it is all Molly's fault, any more than it is all yours. If my small daughter wants her friends to care for her, she must govern that temper and study self-control."
"I know that, mamma," broke in Polly impetuously; "but you don't have any idea how hard 'tis, nor how sorry I am after it is over."
"It is just because I do know it so well, my dear, that I keep saying this to you; for I hope I can save you from a part, at least, of the pain I have suffered in just this same way. I have been through it all, Polly, and I know that every time you give up to your temper, it is just so much easier to do it again; and if you were to go on long enough, in time you would get to where it would be impossible to stop yourself, and you would do something that might be a sorrow to you, through all your life. It is just so with every habit; the more you give way to it, the more it becomes a part of your nature. That is the reason I am trying to help you form the habit of a quiet, even temper. And now," added Mrs. Adams, changing the subject, "what else was there that we wanted to talk over?"
"'Twas Jean," said Polly, as she slipped down on the floor at her mother's feet. "Miss Bean was twitting her to-day because she wasn't rich." And Polly repeated the little conversation which had taken place under the trees.
Mrs. Adams listened thoughtfully. When Polly had finished, she said decidedly,—
"That was rather uncalled for, I think, Polly. Whatever Jean's parents may be, they are really refined people, and Jean is at heart a lady."
"What difference does it make, anyway?" asked Polly impatiently.
"Not so much as most people think," said Mrs. Adams. "If your parents are cultivated people, it helps you to make something of yourself; and whatever teaching you get from them is so much stock in trade, just as money would be, if you were starting in business. If, when you have this start, you don't make the most of it, it shows that you are unworthy of it; and if you become a grand woman without it, then you deserve ever so much more credit than the people who have had everything in their favor. Do you understand me, Polly?"
"Yes, I think I do," said Polly. "And it doesn't make any difference whether we are rich or poor, does it?"
Her mother paused for a moment, as if the question were a hard one to answer. Polly had a way of asking deeper questions than she realized. Mrs. Adams rocked back and forth in silence two or three times; then she said,—
"Yes and no, Polly. Money in itself doesn't make the least bit of difference; but people that have it can make more of themselves,— I don't say that they do, remember. If Jean didn't have to wash so many dishes nor mend so many stockings, she could give more time to study and reading every year. But, after all, I don't believe she would be half so fine, unselfish a girl as she is now, when she has to give up doing what she likes, to help her mother. It is just the same whether it is money, or family, or a fine mind, or beauty; the more that is given you, the more you are expected to make of it, and the more the shame to you if you neglect it. But we're getting into very deep subjects for so near bed-time. What did Alan come for?"
"Just to tell me about the girls," said Polly. "He says they're going to have a pony, and everything."
"How well Alan has been, all summer," remarked her mother.
There was a sudden click of the gate-latch, and a tall figure came up the walk.
"Sitting here in the damp, Isabel, and catching your death of cold! I can't afford time to sit around in the dark doing nothing, when I think of all the good that can be done around us." And Aunt Jane stalked past them into the house, and sat down to cut the leaves of the last scientific magazine.
However, though Mrs. Adams did not reply, she had made up her mind that her usual goodnight talk with Polly was far more important than all the clubs in the world, and no words from Aunt Jane could induce her to give up her nightly habit.
CHAPTER V.
TWO MORE GIRLS.
"It does seem as if to-morrow afternoon never would come," Molly was saying, as she and Polly stood leaning on the fence in the early twilight.
"What time will they get here?" Polly asked her.
"Three o'clock, and I just feel as if I couldn't wait, when I think how every minute is bringing them along. It's going to be splendid to have them here. You must come over to see them the very first thing, Polly, for I want them to know my best friend right away."
"I do hope they'll be nice," said Polly thoughtfully.
"Nice!" echoed Molly. "Of course they are. I'll tell you what, Polly, Alan has been running them down to you. He is so queer about it; I should think he'd like to have them come. They're just as pretty as they can be, and boys always like pretty girls."
"Oh, dear," sighed Polly; "how nice it would be to be pretty!"
"Why, you aren't so bad, Polly." And Molly surveyed her with frank criticism. "If only your nose wasn't quite so puggy, and you didn't have quite so many freckles, you'd be real good-looking. Besides, Alan says he likes your looks better than he does Florence's."
"Does he?" And Polly flushed with pleasure.
"Yes, he told mamma so the other day; you know boys have queer tastes," answered Molly flatteringly.
"But I wish I did know of something to take off freckles and tan," said Polly, rubbing her cheeks with a vicious force. "Aunt Jane wants me to wear a veil and keep white; but I'd rather be black and speckled all over, than make a mummy of myself. I think fresh air and sunshine were made to be enjoyed, and not to be peeked out at through a rag."
"It must be horrid to freckle," said Molly sympathetically. "Did you ever try anything for it, Poll?"
"No, only lemon juice once, and it all ran into my eyes and made them smart; but it didn't touch the freckles any."
"They say buttermilk is good," suggested Molly. "Why not try that?"
"That's a good idea," said Polly. "We have some, and I don't believe it would hurt. How do you use it, Molly? I'll do it to- night, and then I could start white with your cousins, anyway; and so much depends on first impressions, you know."
"I'm not just sure about it," answered Molly; "but I think they put it on over night, and rub it in well. You'd better not do it, if you are afraid it can do any harm."
"Oh, it can't," said Polly, with assurance; "and even if it does, anything is better than looking like a fright."
"But you aren't a fright," said Molly loyally; then added, "What does keep Alan so? His errand wasn't going to take two minutes, and your mother will be tired of him."
"No, she won't," said Polly; "she likes Alan. Don't be in a hurry,
Molly; this is the last chance we shall have to talk for a year."
In spite of herself, Polly's voice failed a little on the last words. She loved her friend dearly, and the coming of the cousins, with the probability of its causing a separation between them, had been her first real sorrow. For Molly's sake she tried to be eager and interested about them, but when she was alone with Jean or Alan, she was disconsolate enough over the prospect. The three or four weeks had flown past, every day bringing the change nearer, and the last evening had come. Arm in arm, the two girls had been pacing up and down the walk, while they waited for Alan, and that half-hour had made Polly realize more than ever how fond she was of this companion with whom she had spent so many contented hours. The memory of their frequent quarrels seemed to sink away into the past, and only the thought of their good times was before them then. But Alan's whistle was heard, as he came out of the house; and he and Molly went away down the street, leaving Polly standing alone at the gate. She looked after them until they disappeared in the gathering darkness; then her curly head dropped on her folded arms, and she began to sob with all the fervor of her impetuous, affectionate nature. It was over in a minute or two, and no one was the wiser for it but the birds in the tall elm trees above her head. Then she turned forlornly, and started to walk to the house; but, with Polly, the reaction always came quickly, and by the time she reached the steps, she was humming the air which Alan had just whistled, as she planned about the gown she would wear when she went to see the cousins, and pictured to herself the details of their first meeting. It was all so like Polly, to be in the depths of grief at one moment, and to be singing the next. Her sorrows were just as sincere as Molly's, while they lasted, but the very intensity of them made it impossible for them to continue long at a time. Polly's life was one of superlatives: when she was happy, she was radiant; when she was unhappy, she was miserable. There was no middle ground for her.
But to-night Polly was bent on beautifying herself. For Molly's sake, as well as for her own, she was anxious to make a good appearance in the eyes of the two girls whom she was to meet on the morrow. The last thing before she went to her room, she secretly visited the kitchen and helped herself to a generous bowl of buttermilk, which she carried up stairs. She set it down on the table and, lamp in hand, went to the mirror. In the main, Polly was not a conceited girl, nor a vain one. On the contrary, she thought little about her personal appearance, except to give an occasional sigh over her hair and freckles. But, just now, it seemed to her that beauty was the one thing to be desired, and holding up the lamp, she gazed at herself steadily, unconscious of the picture she made, with the light falling full upon her bright hair and eager young face. Then she set down the lamp with a suddenness which threatened to shatter it.
"Oh, you fright!" she said to herself, in a tone of disgusted sincerity.
She turned away and took up the bowl from the table, sniffed at it daintily, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. The strong, sour odor of the buttermilk was not pleasant, certainly, but what mattered that, if it removed the obnoxious freckles? She shut her teeth, held her breath, and resolutely applied it to her face, putting it on freely, and rubbing it in until her arms ached and her cheeks burned under their unwonted treatment. The next morning she repeated the operation with even greater zeal, and ended by a vigorous application of soap and water, and a rough towel. Then she drew near the glass once more, to see and admire her soft, white skin, where no freckle would be found. As she gazed, her eyes grew round with wonder, and she stood as if transfixed at the sight before her. To say the least, it was striking. The freckles had not disappeared, but still the buttermilk had done its work, and Polly's face presented every appearance of having been varnished, for, thanks to the polishing which it had undergone, it shone like a new copper tea-kettle. For an instant, tears of mortification stood in the gray eyes; then Polly's sense of the ridiculous had its way, and, dropping into a chair, she laughed till her cheeks were crimson under their metallic surface, and her lashes were damp with hysterical tears.
"What in the world are you laughing at, Polly?" asked Aunt Jane's voice at her door. "The breakfast bell has rung, and it's time you were down-stairs."
"Yes'm," replied Polly, suddenly becoming sober again, as she remembered that she must present herself to the family in this plight, and would probably be well laughed at for her pains.
She delayed in her room as long as she dared, but her mother had always insisted on perfect regularity at meal times, and Polly knew that she must appear. With one last, despairing glance at the mirror, a glance which was by no means reassuring, she turned away and silently went down the stairs and into the dining-room, hoping to take her place at the table so quietly that she could escape notice. It was not her mother whom she dreaded, but she shrank from her father's teasing and Aunt Jane's merciless comments. As she drew her chair up to the table, Aunt Jane glanced up from her oatmeal.
"Late again, Polly! Why, what have you been putting on your face, child?"
Polly's cheeks grew scarlet, but she answered, with an attempt at carelessness,—
"Oh, nothing but a little buttermilk. Why?"
"Why?" responded Aunt Jane, with needless emphasis, "I should think you'd better ask why! Have you looked in the glass this morning?"
"Yes," answered Polly faintly, for they were all staring at her, and she saw a mischievous twinkle come into her father's blue eyes.
"Well, I'd like to know what fresh piece of nonsense this is,"
Aunt Jane was beginning severely, when the doctor interposed,—
"Wait a minute, Jane; don't be in such a hurry to scold. Come, Polly, tell us what you have been doing to make yourself look like a South Sea Islander or a Pawnee?"
Polly dropped her eyes and played with her fork for a minute; but sulkiness was not in her nature, and after a pause, she confessed.
"Molly said buttermilk was good for freckles, so I put some on mine, but they didn't come off. You see," she added, turning to her mother with the certainty that she would find sympathy in that quarter, if in no other, "the Shepard girls are coming to-day, and Molly wanted me to go over to see them right away, and I wanted to look as well as I can."
Polly was interrupted by a hearty laugh from the doctor, who laid down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, to enjoy his merriment to the utmost.
"I think there's no doubt of their being struck by your looks, Polly," he said at length. Then, as he saw her bite her lips to steady them, he added kindly, "Shall I tell my little girl what I really think about it? I don't consider the freckles themselves beautiful; but I would rather see her with enough of them to prove that she lives out of doors in the sunshine, as every healthy child should, than be one of the little, pale-faced beauties brought up in the house, or under veils and broad hats. If I can't have but one, I want my Polly to have health rather than beauty, for health is beauty, especially in children."
"Better have a freckled face than a freckled soul," added Aunt Jane, feeling that here was the opportunity to make a fine moral point.
"There's more connection there than you think, Jane," responded Dr. Adams quickly. "A child is much more likely to have an unfreckled, unspotted soul, when her body has the health which comes with plenty of exposure to the air and sun. Show me a healthy child, and a small amount of care will make her a good one; I'm not so sure of the sickly ones. It's my opinion that more can be made of a healthy sinner than a feeble saint. Isn't it so, Poll?" And he leaned over to pass his broad hand caressingly down the shining face, as he added gaily, "There's one good thing about it, my dear; we shan't have to waste any gas to-night. The light of your countenance will be quite enough."
They were still sitting lingering over their meal, when Alan came in to bring a note from Molly. At sight of Polly, he started back in mock dismay, exclaiming,—
"Great Scott, Polly! What's the matter?"
"Don't tell Molly, Alan," she begged; "but I tried to get rid of my freckles, that's all."
Alan gave a low, expressive whistle.
"I'm glad it's nothing worse. We had a girl once, that told Molly if she let the moon shine on her while she was asleep, she'd all swell up and turn black, and I didn't know but you were beginning to do that."
"I thought you had given up slang, Alan," remarked Mrs. Adams, as she motioned him to a chair beside her.
"So I have, mostly. Mother didn't want me to use much, and I couldn't get along without any; so we split the difference and agreed that I could have one. I chose 'great Scott,' but it doesn't always fit the case. I say, Polly, you'll be over to- night, won't you?"
Polly looked doubtfully at her mother.
"Isn't it rather soon, Alan?" Mrs. Adams asked.
"Not a bit of it," answered the boy. "Mother will be busy with Uncle Henry, because he'll only be here one night, and we'll have to see to the girls. Molly can't manage them both, and I'm no use at all, so we need Polly to help us out. Mother said you'd better come over about five, Poll, and stay to supper."
"I don't know whether I can get bleached in time," answered Polly, laughing, as she followed him to the door; "but I'll come if I can. And don't you dare tell Molly."
"Catch me telling tales!" returned Alan, with some dignity.
"That's not in my line, Poll; and not on you, anyway."
With an appearance of great carelessness, Polly strolled out to the hammock soon after two o'clock that afternoon, and settled herself, book in hand. But for the next hour, there was little reading done, for Polly's gray eyes often wandered from the pages before her, and fixed themselves on the distant corner around which the Shepard family must come. It was a long hour of waiting, and Polly had begun to think that the train must have been wrecked by the way, when the distant, shrill whistle was heard. At the sound, she drew herself into a more dignified position, settled her skirts about her and fell to reading with a will. But though her eyes went down the left-hand page and up again to the top of the right-hand one, she could not have told so much as the title of the book, so absorbed was she in listening for the wheels that would pass the house. She heard them drawing near, but continued to be lost in her reading until just as the carriage was in front of her. Then she glanced up, as if by accident, and was filled with confusion to see Alan leaning down from his seat on the box and pointing at her, while two broad hats and two girl faces were bent forward to survey her curiously. Alan waved his cap; she answered his salute, and the carriage went swiftly on, leaving Polly to stare at the pile of trunks strapped on behind it, with a vague feeling that her intended effect had been a little marred by Alan's demonstration.
"Served me right, though!" she remarked philosophically to herself, as she curled herself up to read in earnest, now that her excitement was over. "I needn't have tried to pose for them; that sort of thing doesn't suit me; I'd better leave it to Florence."
It was with some misgiving, that Polly, two hours later, started to take the familiar walk to the Hapgood house. Every riotous curl was brushed until it lay close to her small head, but already the golden ends were doing their best to break loose once more; thanks to her mother's efforts, her burnished skin had lost a little of its coppery lustre; and her fresh blue and white gingham gown was as dainty and trim as loving hands could make it. But Polly, as she looked in the glass before starting, only saw that her hair was red, and that her freckles would insist on showing. However, Alan's compliment came to her relief, and she dismissed the question of her looks with a smile, as something not worth a thought, and ran off down-stairs to say good by to her mother.
Alan saw her coming, and started to meet her.
"What's the matter, Alan?" she said, noticing his frown, as she joined him.
"Nothing but a crick in my knee," he explained cheerfully; "I think I took cold last night, perhaps. They're up-stairs with Molly," he added vaguely. "I'll call them down, or will you go up?"
"I'll wait here," said Polly, seating herself on the broad stone step. "What are they like, Alan?"
"Stunning beauties, both of them," responded Alan, with some enthusiasm. "Katharine knows it, that's the worst of it. I do hate a girl that thinks she's pretty. I'd rather they'd be homely as Miss Bean, and not think about themselves, all the time. But I'll go call them." And he departed, leaving Polly to meditate on his words.
The girls soon came down the old stairway behind her, and as Polly shyly rose to meet them, she felt at once the truth of Alan's description of Katharine. There was a strong family resemblance between the sisters, both were dark, and they had the same bright, brown eyes and smooth, dark brown hair; but Katharine was by far the more beautiful, with her pink cheeks, small regular teeth, full lips, and long straight nose with just a suggestion of sauciness in the slant of its tip. It was this nose that captivated Polly, and, indeed, Katharine was like a beautiful picture, in figure and feature, while her rapidly changing expressions and her brilliant health added a charm which no picture could ever have. She seemed years older than the other girls, and this effect was increased by the elegance of her dress and by her quiet, settled manners, which made Polly feel very young and shabby in her spotless gingham. Katharine shook hands with a dignity that quite overawed Polly, who turned to look at Jessie with a conscious feeling of relief. Jessie was a plump, lively young woman of twelve, with less, perhaps, of her sister's delicate beauty; but the lack was more than made good by her perfect unconsciousness of self, and her frank, winning manner, which led Polly to forget her formal greeting, and seize her hand, saying impulsively,—
"I'm so glad you've come to live here!"
Jessie laughed, showing a pair of deep dimples in her dark skin, as she answered, with a cordiality equal to Polly's own,—
"And I'm so glad Molly has such nice friends,"
That settled the matter between them, and, arm in arm, they strolled out to the tennis court, chatting like old friends, while Molly and Alan followed with Katharine, who looked about her indifferently, nodding slightly, from time to time, in answer to some question.
"I do think these old houses are splendid," Jessie was saying eagerly. "I never saw one before. Out in Omaha we call a house old that has been built twenty years."
"Haven't you ever been East before?" asked Polly, with a feeling of pity for any girl who had never known the delights of life in an old New England town.
"Never since I was a year old, so I don't remember much about it," answered Jessie. "I think I am going to like it, though, for the place is lovely, and Aunt Ruth is so sweet."
"I hope you won't be homesick, I'm sure," said Polly encouragingly.
Jessie laughed outright at the idea.
"Why should I be homesick?" she inquired, rather to Polly's surprise.
"Why, I don't know exactly, only I should think you'd be lonely without your father and mother," she began.
"That's what Aunt Ruth seemed to think," interrupted Jessie; "but I shan't be, a bit. You see, mamma is off travelling with papa ever so much of the time, and when she's at home, even, we don't see much of her, for we are in school days, and she goes out, or else has company 'most every evening."
"Is that the way people do out there?" inquired Polly, with perfect innocence.
The others were standing near and, at the question, Alan shot a sly glance at Molly, as Katharine answered, with an air of patronage,—
"Not all people, you know; but mamma is in society, and is very gay, so of course she can't be expected to have much time for us."
"Oh!" said Polly, as if a new light had dawned on her. The simple life of the old town and her own mother's devotion to her had not taught her to know that, when the question arises between them, home life must give place to social.
But Molly saw they were treading on dangerous ground, so, to ward off a possible skirmish, she suggested,—
"Let's have a game of tennis. You girls play, don't you?"
It proved that they did, and Alan was sent off to get the net and rackets, followed by Polly, who went racing after him, to help him bring out his load.
"Why, do girls run here?" asked Katharine, with an air of surprise.
"Yes, of course we do; run and play tag, and do all sorts of dreadful things," answered Molly, with some spirit. "What do you do, I'd like to know?"
"Of course it's different in a city," replied her cousin sedately. "We play tennis and skate; but we never run, all for nothing. Only little girls do that."
"What nonsense!" was Molly's comment. "I'd call myself a little girl, then, if I couldn't have any fun without. I hope you don't consider yourself a young lady—Excuse me, Katharine," she added hastily. "I didn't mean to be rude; but you'll have to take us as you find us, I'm afraid."
But Alan and Polly had reappeared, and the game began, watched by
Alan, who refused all the girls' entreaties to play.
"I can't to-night, Poll," he answered to her glance; "I'm too stiff in the joints, but I'll act as umpire."
By the time the game was over, they were excellent friends, even Katharine's reserve having yielded to admiration for the playing of these two girls, who returned her swiftest balls with the precision born of long practice. As the bell rang for dinner, she dropped her racket and held out a hand to each, saying, with the winning grace she knew how to assume at her pleasure,—
"I never saw better players in my life. We shall have to try a series of match games this fall, West against the East."
"They do play pretty well, don't they?" inquired Alan from the rear, with a tone of conscious pride. "I've coached them both, and they can play every bit as well as I can."
"That's modesty," said Polly, laughing. "Alan wouldn't play, just because he was afraid you'd beat him. We play five here, quite often."
"How do you arrange it?" asked Katharine.
"Put in an extra one on the weak side," answered Polly, stooping to pick up a ball she had dropped. "It isn't quite as much fun, but there are just five of us, and it gives us all a chance," she added, as they entered the dining-room and she took her place between Alan and Jessie.
"How do you like it, Kit?" asked Jessie, when they were in their room that night.
"Like what?" inquired Katharine, with a sleepy yawn.
"Oh, auntie and Molly and all?"
"Auntie is rather nice, only she is a little bit countrified," returned Katharine critically; "and Molly is well enough; but what a funny little thing that Polly Adams is! She acts more like a boy, the way she goes rushing around with Alan."
"I like her, though," said Jessie.
"She isn't so bad," answered Katharine thoughtfully; "she's a good-hearted little thing, even if she isn't like the Omaha girls. I do like Alan, though, Jessie; don't you? He is a splendid- looking fellow, and has ever so much fun in him. He seems ever so much older than he really is."
"Perhaps it's because he has been sick a good deal," suggested
Jessie.
"It may be that is it," assented Katharine, pulling off the silver bangles that clanked like a criminal's fetters at every motion of her hand; "but he doesn't look as if he'd been ill a day in his life. I'm so glad there's a boy in the family; for they always keep things going. I wonder what our school will be like."
The two girls speculated on the future until they heard Alan, in the next room, kick off his shoes and let them drop, with a thud, on the floor. Then, tired with their journey, they fell asleep.
CHAPTER VI.
POLLY ENCOUNTERS THE SERVANT QUESTION.
As time went on, Polly's first impression of the sisters was unchanged. In fact, the girls all agreed in pronouncing Jessie "a dear," and she was at once made to feel at home with the V, which hospitably extended its arms to take her in. But with Katharine it was a different matter. Critical of others, and constantly studying the effect of all that she herself said or did, she was rather a damper on the good times of the girls. Fortunately, she usually scorned them as children, and spent much of her time with her mates in the fashionable boarding-school at which she and her sister were day pupils. And yet, she was not to blame for this artificial side of her nature. At heart she was as true and sweet a girl as Molly herself; but, bred up in the atmosphere of her western city home where there was but one end in view, to struggle up to the top of the social scale, if need be, over the bodies of one's dearest friends, what wonder was it that her growth towards womanhood was cramped by being forced out of its natural beauty into the artificial lines of fashionable society. But it was not yet too late to undo the harm, for a generous, warm heart lay under her affected indifference and ambition; and her parents had been wiser than they realized, when they sent their daughters East to be educated, and left them in the care of the motherly woman whose social position was too assured to have her feel the need for striving, and who, like Mrs. Adams, believed that a woman's highest life lay in her home and children, and that society was incidental, rather than the main end in view.
There were times, and they were by no means rare, when Katharine's native sweetness showed itself, and then the girls welcomed her to their circle. Florence was her favorite among them, while she openly courted Alan's favor, to the amusement of the boy's mother, who smiled quietly to herself over his unconsciousness of her attempts and his continued, unswerving devotion to Polly.
"But what I don't understand," she said to Florence, one day, when they were out for a walk together, "is how you girls ever happened to pick up Jean Dwight."
"Pick her up? What do you mean?" asked Florence, meeting her friend's look with a glance which was almost defiant, for she was too loyal to Jean to fail to notice the scorn in Katharine's tone and manner.
"You know what I mean, Florence, so don't pretend to be as absurd as Polly Adams and Molly are. Of course you and I both know that you three girls could have the pick of the town, if you chose; and I don't see why you take up with the daughter of a carpenter."
Polly had called Florence "a flat," but there was no suggestion of weakness in her reply now. On the contrary, she drew up her small figure to its full height, and spoke with a simple, childish dignity which might have put to shame her companion.
"You needn't say any more about it, Katharine. It is just because we do have the pick of the town that we have taken up with Jean Dwight. At least, she is too much of a lady to slander her friends behind their backs, even if she is only a carpenter's daughter."
"Don't be so crushing, Florence. I only wanted to know what was the reason you were with her so much," answered Katharine, trying to pass off the matter lightly, although she was privately resolving to cultivate the acquaintance of this girl, of whom her friends were so fond.
One bright day in early October, the V had walked up from school together as far as Molly's, where they settled themselves on the piazza to talk over the doings of the day. Katharine and Jessie had joined them, and they sat there chatting till the clock struck five. At the sound, Polly sprang up.
"Oh, dear! I ought to have gone home long ago," she said regretfully. "Is anybody else coming?"
"I'm going to stay a little longer," answered Jean. "Wait just a few minutes, Poll."
"I can't, Jean; mamma will be expecting me." And Polly picked up her hat and started for home, followed by Alan who escorted her to the gate.
She was surprised, when she entered the house, to find the lower rooms deserted and in some confusion. Her astonishment was increased when, on going up-stairs, she saw her mother with her bonnet on, busy in packing her small satchel. Mrs. Adams's red eyes and white face told her daughter that something was amiss.
"So you have come, at last!" she exclaimed, with an air of relief, as she caught sight of Polly in the door; "I was just thinking that I should have to send Mary after you."
"What's the matter, mamma; are you going away?" Polly asked anxiously.
"For a little while, dear. We have had a telegram that Uncle
Charlie is very, very ill. And Aunt Jane and I are going to New
York to-night."
So Aunt Jane was going too! Polly was relieved at that. Uncle Charlie she scarcely knew, so her main anxiety was for her mother, of whose devotion to this only brother she was well aware. "Is he going to die, mamma?" she asked slowly.
The tears were falling on the toilet-case in Mrs. Adams's hand, but she answered steadily,—
"I hope not, dear; but they are very anxious about him. I am sorry to leave you all alone here with papa, and he is away so much of the time, too."
"Don't you worry about me, Jerusalem," answered Polly courageously, though her heart sank, a little, as she thought of the lonely evenings.
"I presume I shan't be gone long," said Mrs. Adams thoughtfully; "but it is so uncertain. If only Aunt Jane could be here, it would be a comfort to you."
But Polly shook her head violently.
"I'd rather be alone, mamma. I shall get along beautifully, and you've no idea what good care I'll take of papa."
Mrs. Adams was crossing the room to get her slippers. As she passed Polly, she stooped to kiss her.
"And you have no idea," she said, "what a comfort it is to me that you take it so bravely. I know it will be forlorn for you, but there isn't any help for it. Papa is getting ready, now, to drive us to the station, for it is almost time for the train."
As she spoke, the doctor's voice was heard from below, calling to them to hurry; Aunt Jane swept out from her room; Mrs. Adams snapped the fastener of her bag and turned to say good by to her daughter. Polly went down-stairs behind her and stood in the door, looking after them with rather a long face, though she waved her hand bravely until they were around the corner.
Then she went back up-stairs, feeling as if, all at once, an earthquake had struck their quiet home. She and her mother had rarely been separated, and the suddenness and sadness of the present summons only added to the loneliness. The house was in that state of disorder which always follows a hurried packing, and Polly went mechanically up and down, putting the rooms in order while, in imagination, she followed the travellers to the train. Then, when, all was done, she went into her own room and sat down to consider the situation. Taken all in all, it was not an encouraging picture that the next few days presented. Her father was liable to be called away at any hour of the night, leaving her alone with Mary who slept at the far end of the house; there would be the lonely hours when she was out of school; the next day was Saturday—what should she do with herself? The prospect was too much for poor Polly and, throwing herself down on her bed, she gave herself up to the luxury of a hearty cry.
"I wish I were dead now,
Or else in my bed now,
I'd cover my head now,
And have a good cry."
"Is this what you call a hospitable welcome?" asked a sudden voice.
Polly raised her head in surprise, and saw Molly standing in the doorway, with a smile on her face and a great bundle in her hand. Polly sprang up and threw her arms around her friend excitedly.
"Oh, Molly Hapgood! where did you come from? I never, never was so glad to see anybody in all my life."
"If that's a fact," said Molly coolly, "why didn't you come down- stairs to meet me, and not make me hunt for you, all over the house?"
"How could I meet you, when I didn't know you were coming?" demanded Polly.
"Didn't you?" asked Molly, surprised in her turn. "Why, your mother just stopped at our house and told me that she had to go away for a few days, and you wanted me to come and stay with you till she came back. She said you'd tell me all about it."
"Isn't that just like her!" exclaimed Polly rapturously. "And you're going to stay here all the time? How perfectly splendid!"
"Where's she gone?" asked Molly, as she unpacked her brown paper
Saratoga.
"Uncle Charlie, in New York, is so ill they've sent for mamma and Aunt Jane," answered Polly, with sudden seriousness, "and they don't know anything more than that. It said—the telegram, I mean— 'Charles very ill, come at once,' and mamma is dreadfully worried. Of course she doesn't know how long she'll be gone. Oh, I am so glad you've come!" And Polly, with the tears still damp upon her cheeks, pranced excitedly up and down the room.
"You don't know how lonesome it was going to be," she went on, when she had quieted down a little. "Now, if only Uncle Charlie will get well, I don't care much how long they're gone. We'll just have an elegant time."
"I don't think Katharine liked my coming very well," remarked Molly, with a giggle, as she pulled out an extra gown and hung it over the foot of Polly's dainty white and gold bed. "She seems to think I can't stir, now they are at the house; but I'm not going to give up all my fun for them. They're nothing but boarders; 'tisn't as if they were on a visit; and Alan can see to them once in a while. He can't bear Katharine," she continued, after a pause; "he heard her say to Florence, once, that he was distangy looking, and he never has forgiven her since. We don't either of us know just what it means, but he thinks it has something to do with his nose."
Polly threw herself into a chair and burst out laughing.
"Oh, Molly, Molly! What will you say next? That means distinguished; it's French, you know." "I don't know anything about French, Poll; and you needn't laugh at me, for you don't know much yourself," returned Molly, with some dignity.
"I don't believe Katharine does, either," answered Polly. "The way I happened to know about that was because she said so to me once, and I asked mamma what it meant. She says she doesn't think it's nice for girls to keep putting French and German words into what they say, for it looks as if they did it to show off. Come on, let's go down and see what we're going to have for dinner."
Soon after dinner, the doctor went away to his office, and the girls decided to settle themselves for a quiet visit in front of the open fire in the parlor. This was their first evening alone together since Jessie and Katharine had come, and there was much to be talked over.
"Don't let's have any light but just the fire," Molly suggested.
"Then we'll sit on the rug and have it all to ourselves."
"I can't help feeling as if Aunt Jane were likely to drop in at any minute, though," Polly remarked. "She doesn't approve of people's sitting in the dark; she thinks it is lazy."
"She's half way to New York by this time," said Molly; "but I do wish your mother was here."
"So do I," groaned Polly fervently, as she caught sight of the empty fire-place, for there was not one single stick on the andirons.
Now, to lay an open fire ready for the lighting is at once a science and a fine art, and Polly was by no means versed in the operation. Why, of all days in the year, this happened to be the one on which Mrs. Adams had neglected to arrange her usual pile of round sticks and kindlings and shavings, it would be hard to say. Some little unexpected call on her time had made her forget this regular duty, and had left her daughter as hostess to preside over a cheerless hearthstone.
"What's the trouble?" asked Molly, as she detected the discouraged ring to her friend's tone. "Don't you know how to lay a fire?"
"I never have laid one, all alone," admitted Polly, whose share in the matter, it must be confessed, had been to tuck a handful of soft, light shavings under the andirons and apply the match. "But," she added valiantly; "I've watched mamma often enough, and I know I can do it. We must have a fire; the furnace one is 'most out, for Mary forgot to put in any coal, and it's just freezing here. You sit down, and I'll go get some wood."
She came back in a few moments, tugging a great basket of wood, which she arranged in an orderly, solid pile across the andirons, much as she might have placed it, had she been packing it in a woodshed. Then she added a generous handful of shavings, and touched it off with a match.
"There!" said she, with a prolonged accent of contentment; "you see it's easy enough. It will all be going, in a minute."
"Don't you be too sure," returned Molly, doubtfully eyeing the shavings which flashed into flame and quickly died away, leaving the wood unscorched.
"What do you suppose is the matter?" said Polly, rather annoyed at her lack of success.
"Seems to me you've put the wood in too tight," said Molly, arming herself with the shovel, and trying to pry the sticks apart.
"Perhaps I have," said Polly meekly.
Regardless of soot and ashes, she pulled the wood out on the rug, and began again. This time she arranged it cris-crossing as regularly as the walls of a log-house, and, having exhausted her supply of shavings, she lighted a newspaper and thrust it into the middle opening. The girls watched it with eager eyes. It blazed up like the shavings and, like them, burned out, leaving only the blackened cinders, with here and there a line of red, to show where an edge had been. This was discouraging; the room was uncomfortably cool, and they were wasting their entire evening in preparing for their talk.
"The third time conquers," said Molly, laughing, as she saw Polly tearing down her log cabin. "What are you going to do next, Poll?"
"Lay it yourself, if you want to," retorted Polly, showing more heat than the fire had done.
"I never did such a thing in my life," Molly assured her. "Can't
Mary do it?"
"I don't know," said Polly, dropping back from her knees until she sat on her heels; "anyway, she's so cross I don't dare ask her."
"What makes your mother keep her if she's so cross?" inquired Molly, leaning forward to blow the last spark which still lingered on the newspaper.
"Because she can't get anything else," answered Polly, unconsciously touching the key-note of the whole servant question.
"Well," remarked Molly, after a pause, while Polly again wrestled with the fire, "we shall catch our deaths of cold here, Polly; we may as well go to bed, for this isn't going to burn to-night."
"I'm sorry, Molly," her hostess said penitently, as they went up- stairs after leaving a note on the table addressed to the doctor, and containing the simple but alarming statement: "Good night; we've gone to bed to keep from freezing."
"I don't care a bit," said Molly. "I like to talk after I'm in bed, and we shall have ever and ever so long before we get sleepy."
At breakfast, the next morning, the girls had to bear with much teasing from the doctor on the subject of their struggles, the evening before; and, as he rose from the table, he suggested that they should ask Alan to give them a few lessons in making bonfires.
"I shan't be back to lunch," he added, as he put his head through the dining-room door again; "but I'd like dinner on time to-night, surely, for I must go down to the hospital before my evening hour."
"I'll tell Mary," said Polly, jumping up to follow him to the front door, as was her mother's custom.
"Now," she continued, as she went back to the table, "what let's do all day?"
Their plans were soon formed: a drive with Job in the morning, for, of late, after many cautions, Polly had been allowed to drive the old creature; and in the afternoon they would go to see Jean.
"I wonder if Alan wouldn't go with us, this morning," said Polly.
"I think he'd like to," answered Molly. "He caught cold a week ago, and since then he's been so stiff that he hasn't been anywhere but just to school and back; and I should think he would be glad to get away from Katharine. He says he gets so tired of her."
"We'll ask him, then," said Polly. "I think 'twould be a good idea to start early, so I'll go out to tell Mary about lunch, and have John harness right away."
She was gone for some time, and when she came back to Molly in the sitting-room, her face was flushed and her eyes were shining with an angry gleam.
"Why, Polly?" said Molly, raising her eyebrows inquiringly.
"It's that horrid Mary!" responded Polly, casting herself down on the sofa with unnecessary vigor. "I don't see what we are going to do, Molly Hapgood; I've a good mind to send you right straight off home."
"You've done it before now," Molly began teasingly, but seeing the real trouble in her friend's face, she relented and asked, "What's gone wrong, Polly?"
"It hasn't gone, it's only going," answered Polly lugubriously. "It's Mary. She says mamma has been promising her a vacation for a long time, and that she's going to take it now, for it's such a good time when part of the family are away. I told her she mustn't; but she says she's going to, or else she'll go for good. I don't dare let her do that, but whatever am I going to do, Molly? She's going right off now, and you'd better go home to stay." And Polly rose and stalked tragically up and down the room, with her fingers buried in her curls.
Molly surveyed her in pity; then she rose to meet the emergency like a heroine.
"I'm not going to go home one single step, Polly," she declared.
"I'll stay here and help you through with it."
"But you'll starve, Molly," remonstrated her hostess tearfully.
"Nonsense!" responded Molly. "Now you just sit down and don't go rushing round like this, and we'll talk the matter over, and take an account of stock."
This was encouraging, and Polly felt her spirits coming up again.
"Well?" she asked, as she seated herself on the sofa once more.
"In the first place," said Molly, with a calmness born of inexperience, "we'll tell her to go. I have heard mamma say, often and often, that it's easier to do the work yourself than to have a girl around that's restless and wanting to be off all the time."
There was something so impressive in Molly's manner, as she delivered herself of this sentiment, that Polly gazed at her with a new respect. She had never dreamed that her friend knew so much about housekeeping.