Peggy's well-meant efforts at entertainment were suddenly interrupted by a loud sniff from the other side of the wall, and, looking up, she saw the round, reproachful face of Polly Smith, a girl of about her own age, who sometimes came up to the Abbey to help Nancy at busy times.
'Why, it's you, miss, I do declare!' exclaimed Polly. 'And making play-houses in Mrs. Davis's garden on Sunday, too! I am surprised! I've been to Sunday-school!'
Peggy felt rather caught, but she carried it off as well as she could.
'I was only amusing Willie,' she said. 'He was going to cry because Granny Davis went indoors and left him.'
'Ay, she's been sittin' swarmin' her bees all day. I see her when I was goin' to chapel, and I see her again when I come back, and when I goes to Sunday-school she were still there. My dada says he don't hold with folks as can't keep the Sabbath holy.'
And Polly turned up her small nose in a distinctly aggravating manner.
'How did you get on at Sunday-school?' asked Peggy, who did not like insinuations against the moral worth of her dear Mrs. Davis.
'Splendid, miss. I always does. Teacher gave me a prize for sayin' hymns—such a nice book. Wouldn't you like to look at it?'
'Are you sure it's a Sunday book?' inquired Peggy, who could not forbear her revenge.
'Oh yes, for I looked at the end chapter, and she dies beautiful, and they plant snowdrops on her grave; and her big brother, what's so unkind to her, gets drowned through goin' boatin' on Sunday,' replied Polly, regarding Peggy as if she thought her courses might lead her to a similar watery fate.